I feel so lost at times.
I think this feeling of being lost may be what’s contributed to a lack of writing anything. How can I write anything when I don’t know what to write? don’t know what i feel? don’t know where i’m at? don’t know anything? (don’t know how to write complete sentences?)
I’ve been lost in my thoughts, and lost in my attempts do drown my thoughts. I think too much. I worry too much. I dream way too much.
There is too much to do. Too much that I want to do. Too much that I wish I could do. Too much.
For years I’ve dreamt big. thought of what is possible. thought of what i can do. thought of what i should do. thought of what i must do. thought of matters of pride. thought of matters of civility. thought of my community. thought of humanity. thought of ways that i could change things. thought of how i could be involved. thought…
…and i question myself. Is any of this for real? are these silly thoughts achievable? or am i simply lying to myself?
…and what’s scarier is that i find myself telling my children that anything is possible. that they can achieve anything if they try. that the world is theirs. I tell them the very things which I have begun to call into question.
Several words have echoed in my mind. These echoes are beginning to drive me mad.
Most of these words revolve, in some way, around Cynthiana.
Cynthiana.
Cynthiana.
Why do I really care about Cynthiana? Really? Why?
WHY?
…at times I feel as if I’m a child, standing in the shadow of a figure. Some dark, tall, and cruel figure, whose name is Cynthiana. I long for Cynthiana’s attention, respect, and love. I pull at Cynthiana’s coat tail, asking for it’s hand, asking it to show me it’s love, asking it to please hold my hand, asking it to…
…and the shadow pulls away.
…and i keep trying to find ways to get its approval.
…and it all seems to be for naught.
…i feel as if I’m the shadow’s bastard son.
…and for some reason, I keep trying.
…and as I grow older, I feel something else growing. I feel a letter growing. I feel a “c” growing, ever so slowly, in front of “older”. I hate that letter. I don’t want to grow a “c”. I want to grow a “b”. Why can’t I grow a “b”?
Bolder. That’s what I want to be. That’s what I keep thinking of. what i keep dreaming of. what i keep wishing for. what i keep…
If I’m bolder I can show Cynthiana who I am, and why I’m important, and why I want to make a difference. I don’t want to be the little child begging for acknowledgment. I don’t want to be the bastard son anymore.
I want to grow several feet taller. I want to be able to place my hand on the shadow’s shoulder, spin it around, and stare at it’s face, into it’s eyes. I want to tell the shadow that I do matter, and that without me the shadow will die old and lonely, withering up in a room in some secluded cabin.
I’m losing my train of thought. Wandering all over the place as I write this. I know that none of what I’ve written thus far makes any sense. I’m sure that none of what I’ll continue to write will make sense, either. But this is therapeutic. I’m starting to feel a bit better. Not so dark and depressed. Odd.
…and I just did something totally random while writing this… I exchanged a few short words with someone who I went to school with. Someone who I only spoke to on occasion. Someone who I really didn’t get to know any better until after high school, through another friend.
Networking. Social Networking. It’s weird.
…I really don’t know what possessed me to speak to her. I simply saw her come online, and was somehow drawn to ask her an odd question:
“If you could describe Cynthiana in one sentence, what would you say?”
Her answer? One that I kind of expected:
“Cynthiana is definitely home, but I’m glad I don’t live there.”
I don’t know why I’m including that here. It just seems relevant.
*sigh*
I’m sure that I’ve mentioned that I once worked in a factory which had been located in Cynthiana, and that the factory eventually moved to a neighboring city. I believe that’s something which started to make me question my loyalty to the community.
I don’t know.
Why am I here? Why do I care? Why do I want to try?
…and if i truly want to try, why haven’t I gotten involved in something?
I don’t know.
It appears that I really wasn’t ready to write anything, yet.
I’ve written nothing but random thoughts.
But, in the process, I’ve reminded myself of something I want to share. More on that in the next post, which will be coming shortly.
…as always, any comment is appreciated. Honestly, I’m kinda wanting comments on this one. I guess what I really want is some help in trying understand why I want to be here, even though I sometimes feel unwelcome. I can’t seem to figure that part out, and it troubles me.
…oh, and fair warning to anyone who actually reads this… i might revisit this post… there seems to be several starting points for other discussions embedded throughout the text…
I wanted to be something to this place, too. Wanted to be important, to contribute, to be known and vital to the community. But when you think about it, the only vital cogs are the town weirdos. You have to have some sort of gimmick to get by. It’s that, or get complacent.
But that person is right… it is home. It always will be the comfy little womb in which we grew. But you can’t improve or impress a womb. It is what it is, nothing more, nothing less.
I feel like her. Somehow Cynthiana while a wonderful and glorious place has never felt like home to me. I will be content to settle here and raise our children here with you because I know how much you love this place, but my heart is not here like yours is. My heart is with you, but I feel no love for Cynthiana. I wish I could feel the way you do about where you live. So passionate and filled with hope for this place. All I can see is what she was and what she will never be.