Often I dislike my porous hide. Or maybe it’s my eyes within my head that bring me to grief. I see things that usually remain hidden.
This is what makes me a writer. Oh, how I love to write. Lately I think it’s not just that I enjoy writing, but that writing means I’m all alone. Guess what, when I’m all alone I’m less disturbed by the world that always seeps so quickly beneath my skin.
I keep trying to find a balance between the time spent inside my office as a writer and time spent outside these walls as a participant in this game called life. I mean I do need stimulus to keep my brain churning out new material. Heck, I crave human interaction more than most people.
That’s why it sucks to be an onion. Some days I am a super weepy person: the world peels me and I am one big weepy mess. I’m that big eye and people look my way and wonder why I can’t wait to sob until I get home.
It’s like I’m a shape shifter, taking on the shape of emotions in the room. Yes, sometimes the emotions are all mine. But that line that some people build in brick between them and the world? Well, my line is chalk and it’s always smearing into dust. If I’m helping in a classroom, that sensitive kid gets me every time. He’s pouring anxiety into the room and I’m there, wishing I could show him how to build with bricks. Hey kid, I have no idea how to make cement, but find yourself a private office to create your own artwork someday, OK?
What am I trying to say here? I’m not quite sure, but lately I take notes on my onion nature when I am out in the real world. Well, of course I’m also taking notes on everything going on around me. I want to write about the girl with the jet black hair who handed me an apple wrapped in a paper towel. How in my brain she shape shifts into a wolf and I wonder what kind of story I would create if I had enough time to myself to let my imagination run wild. But I’m also taking notes on myself. How much is enough time being outside of my office and my safe family life? What amount feeds me and what amount makes my onion shred completely into weepy eye that needs a vacation behind a brick wall to feel better?
Maybe this is what it means to be almost 45 and finally figuring out how to live well enough on a day to day basis on this planet.