Gold is a noun.

Me: Fuck you.  

You:

Me: Fuck that shit.  Fuck you

You:

Me: I am tired of trying to figure out why and trying, hoping, wanting in general..

You:

Somewhere along the way the night slowly became day. I was still scurrying underground and collecting resources that I had not minded for years.

Reluctantly I came to the surface andd the heat was overwhelming. The dry heat made me realize how hungry and thirsty I actually was.

I am scared to want. I am scared to acknowledge. Afraid any movement will unleash a deluge of thirst.

I have spent my life thinking I am not good enough.  I have spent my life wondering why I always feel on the outside looking in.  And it has sucked.  And I have looked to other people to legitimize who I am am and what I want.  Is that where I went wrong?  Can anyone help me not feel like an imposter?  

I want to be a writer.

I just want to share. I want to explore topics and share. Mostly I want to share.

That's the cliff that I have been walking towards. And here I am.

I will be 34 tomorrow.

How did I make it here?

I have shattered into a million pieces, tried a million different personas, and failed a million times, and yet I am still here.

Fighting, dreaming, scared shitless, desperate for intimacy and love, frightened of failure, longing for more.

I want to write a book.

I want to fall in love.

I want to fail miserably and I want compassionate blue eyes.

I want and I want and I want.

I am not where I wanted to be or is it that I am not where I thought I would be?

There is no past I want to resurrect. No apologies I need to make. Just forward motion.

Forward motion is the chorus.

I’ve called it.  It is time.  

Time to stop stocking up. Time to stop planning, preparing.  

The stage has been set.  The plans have been written up, restarted, reworked, rehearsed.

 And here I stand stage left watching the actors in the arena afraid to set foot on the stage.  Afraid of the bright lights, afraid of the criticism, afraid to be seen.  

I didn’t know who I was.  I didn’t know what to believe.  I didn’t know where to start.  

So I did what so many people do.  I emulated, I followed trends, I tried on different people, anything to numb myself from the questions and from the person within.  There were a billion people I would have rather been than myself.  

When it all fell apart, I was angry, lost, and depressed.  I had given years of my life to help someone else and didn’t notice the resent and anger building up inside me.  I thought the terms of our engagement were clear.  I would help him figure himself out and then he would the same for me.  

For years afterwards, I wondered if I had ever said the terms of the agreement out loud or if I imagined I had.  I kept thinking of the day that I said I couldn’t anymore and I needed to leave.  I remembered the week I spent with him at our old apartment.  I expected both times to meet the person I wanted him to be, the man who looked at me with compassion and said it was my turn.  But all I was told was to go and that no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough.  

I recount not out of anger but because in telling my story, I know what I need to do.  Write the book I want, run a marathon, build my savings, and work tirelessly to help myself figure it out.  

I wanted you to ask why. I wanted you to see past the superficial.

I wanted to sit under the stars and talk for hours about my dreams and fears. I wanted to be your cheerleader and help you achieve those dreams and for you to do the same for me. I thought it was a winning formula.

To show you what I can do and what I am capable of doing for the people I love. I was always left feeling as if I had a marathon and when I arrived at the finish line exhausted there were medals and snacks for everyone but me.

When my fears and emotions got the best of me and my self destructive tendencies seeped then exploded out, all I wanted was for you to sit there and ask why. No solution, no ultimatum, just compassion and genuine interest.

And instead one day after another drunken wmotional outburst, I imagined you asking me why and answered the questions I feared for myself.

Maybe someone one day will ask me why and I will smile and I will think of the reherseals I never had with the men I loved and the rehearsals with myself. Happy that I did it myself when I was afraid and know with him that there are no longer any monsters to be afraid of.

And I am sorry I demanded so much of you when I was afraid to do myself. It was not your job to fix me. It was not youur job to assure me that I wasn't a monster. It was my job. Once I did it instead of 10 colors, the world is awash in a million colors.

I am here for the good and the bad.  

The flawed and the flawless.  

For the moments both euphoric and heartbreaking.  

I will be here for all it.  

Present and compassionate.  

Knowing perfection is an illusion and that compassion is the only way forward.  

I will try to remember that change is inevitable and that I am worthy.  

Try to remember I am worthy.  

Try to remember I am worthy.  

Me: I am scared. I am so scared. So scared that I spend all the time watching who I want to be in other people, dreaming of her, yet here.

You:

Me: I am afraid. Afraid I am her, afraid I am not her, afraid to be her.

You:

Me: I wonder if she is mad at me for hesitating the way I do, for staying small the way I do. For not wanting to be seen the way I do.

You: It's time to move.

I've been bad.

I've been good.

I have won and failed.

I have won and not noticed.

Failed and thought I won.

I have been exactly who I want to be.

I have become a stranger to myself.

Then found myself again.

I have run away.

I came back.

I have cried, given up, been orgasmically happy, and suicidally sad.

I've been all those things.

Sometimes within the span of a minute, a year, certainly a lifetime.

I believe in mile markers, to-do lists, and checkboxes.  Questioning and understanding is the backbone of who I am as a person.  The gap from not knowing to knowing is a beautiful process.  

My favorite question is why?  Why am I angry?  Why am I sad?  Why do I want to do x?  Why is that a goal?  Some people are afraid of the motivation, of the fear,  of the instictual emotion behind the thing.