perhaps its just my palate

it is so easy to let go of something once you've made up your mind to do it. my problem has always been to cling on to those little last bits of hope until they were barely shreds, sweatstained from sleepless nights and forlorn in their own sense of burden.

that's what i've done this week - let something go. it was new for me, giving up that idea (maybe it was a conviction) without even really thinking about it. it should have not been difficult even from the beginning, something i never had but wanted, a few hours under flourescent lights with someone who represented choice. i had not the promise, but only the remote possibility, of something new in the background of the part of my mind which clings still to adolescence which pushed it away without regard.

simplicity too is new for me, having spent most of my years striving to ensure things remained as colorful and complicated as possible. i would think, these scars have to appear and you have to let them show - no one can ever look at you and risk thinking it's been easy, which should have made me dangerous but mostly just made me quiet. i would think, you'll never learn from this if it doesn't hurt, without realizing that i was putting myself within arm's length of destruction with my only consideration to how it would change my appearance to the world.

but i think that as you get older and time begins to pass so quickly that it's difficult to discern patterns or colors in the memory of recent days passed, you slow down a little bit and begin to breathe consciously in an effort to preserve yourself for what must be coming. life, isn't it? the end of adolescence and the beginning of something tangible, something you could feel gritty between your teeth. when your decisions could destroy everything but you have to make them anyway.

i've always been a watcher. i can know someone at a single glance, when it doesn't matter. i once sat on a bench in a brightly lit mall at christmastime, waiting for my mom and feeling in the vibrations of the wood underneath me the sheer power of some man's basso profondo. when i turned, i saw him only briefly ducking beneath his eyelashes every time he spoke - an adolescent only a few years younger than myself, so uncomfortable with his existence he wanted to curl up inside his skin, tightening himself until he disappeared.

where that halts is with myself. i do not know what i do or how i do it or why. i am constantly second guessing myself about how everyone sees me. on sunday night i had a conversation with someone new and after i went to bed i found myself wondering, does he think i'm lonely, desperate for anyone to talk to? am i? is that why i couldn't stop talking, telling him personal things? and it extends to how the people nearest react to me, i have no idea what they're thinking or what they want - especially if it seems important that i know. he was friendly and full of life, perhaps used to girls unable to hold their tongues around him but i'm not really a girl anymore, i shouldn't have to wonder about these things.

the most important part is that it does not matter, that i don't really care all that much anymore. i've become so much more comfortable with myself recently that i've actually noticed people responding to it. it's a nice feeling, to keep in mind that whatever happens around me doesn't define how i feel, and that someone responding to me in a way other than what i hope for doesn't lessen either one of us, but makes us who we are. i think that's why it was so easy to let go, to realize that the hope i was holding on to was far less important than the memory of how i felt that night almost a year ago, to be greatful that it had even happened in the first place.

in case you hadn't noticed, i've been sort of engaged in an existential crisis these past few weeks, perhaps culminating this past week with a particular crisis i've washed my hands of (efficiently eliminating several particularly pathetic years of my life from the record book). must be the good kind though, because nothing really hurts like it used to - well, aside from the ending of harry potter and the half-blood prince - so perhaps i've aged like good wine or maybe i'm just finally growing up. even scotch tastes better these days, and no one would have guessed that was even possible.