In Between

Here is the truth: I don't know where I am going or what I am doing. I just know the "why". In some ways, that's the best place to start, to know what motivates you and makes you passionate. In other ways, it makes these in between times feel like I am accomplishing nothing.

Here is the truth: I'm ready to move forward. And by "move forward" I mean that I really want to go to new places and meet new people. I have some good friends here but I cannot help to think that there is something lacking right now.

Here is the truth: some of the guys I know throw society's ideology of beauty into the faces of young women trying to live as more than a face. The expectations are too high for me to ever achieve and it leaves me either feeling deeply insecure and/or really isolated.

Here is the truth: I hated this night. And I did so with class...I did so without anger or visible emotions, except for that moment in my car, in the parking lot. But no one needs to know about that.

Here is the truth: I should not have cared in the first place.

A Poem

There is beauty in the smell

of burning matches

and the sound of 

crunching leaves.

Fallen trees

that cross deeper streams

perch me up. 

Maybe the very things

that speak of death,

breathe meaning into life. 

Just for the Record

Just for the record, I'm more complicated than I would like to admit. I over analyze everything, especially myself. Sylvia Plath said that she either liked people way too much or not at all. I'm the same way. People are more important to me than I ever utilize words to express. For some strange reason I find it easier to tell the very people I care about that I don't need them in my life (true story, I just told a friend that a couple weeks ago). I hold way too much in until it eventually comes out all wrong. I express myself but it is misunderstood, and this is probably my own fault.

I want to appear put together. I like for it to seem like I have a perfect plan for my life and I'm following it precisely. I like for people to think that I'm entirely capable of working all week, having a garage sale, planning a party, and cooking for twenty people without things going wrong and still looking completely in control. Truth is, my hair looked terrible at that party, I was running around like a crazy person all day, and I forgot to get gas and ran out that night. Yes, friends, this is the real reason it took me ages to run to the store for more beverages. Fortunately, few of you read my blog so my secret is relatively safe.

My point is this: I'm still figuring things out; but let's be honest, when do we ever stop? For every question answered, a new one comes up. For every new situation or period of life, different problems need solving.
In some ways, this is really depressing because it is as if I am working towards an end that doesn't exist. And yet, it's comforting to think that even though you may not sit and blog about your "issues" you have them too. Goodness, you may not even be aware of them, but they undoubtedly exist. And the people who can take the time to analyze my problems probably aren't self aware enough for me to pay attention to. I think I'll stick with those crazy, sometimes annoying, people that at times drastically misunderstand me yet still stay around when I tell them I'm fine without them (lies.lies.lies). Just for the record, thanks.

I haven't written because...

Maybe I can't convince myself to sit and write because writing somehow shatters the illusion, if not for everyone else, for myself.

 Someone once said that poetry is a lie that tells the truth. For me, this applies to writing in general. Whether I am straight up venting, writing a poem, or a story, somehow I feel like I am giving away something about myself each time. Maybe that just shows how I have never quite reached a level of maturity in my writing that I need to.

Every now and again, real life sucks out my creativity. With working a lot, trying to go back to school, and juggling a build up of emotions that make me uncomfortable, I have been afraid that blogging would just end up being a post about something ridiculous that future Tsionah will regret. I may have to admit to some truths I've previously avoided.

The one thing I'm absolutely sure of right now, is that nothing is certain. Everything changes. I change. And while I've opened up my blog numerous times to write, I cannot seem to write about those changes. I process some things by writing about them, so please excuse me while I decide not to write.