The Shape of Me (But Make It Complicated)
Because why settle for simplicity when you can be a cosmic riddle?
13 Nov 2024
I’m learning that being human means living with contradiction. There’s this ache, this relentless hunger to be seen, but also a fierce need to protect the most fragile parts of myself. I want to be wholly here, yet untethered, free. And somehow, I keep finding pieces of myself in the spaces I thought I’d left behind—in the people I’ve almost forgotten, in the smoke of long-ago nights, and in the words I try to wrap around it all. I’m a shape in motion, a story that refuses to end, endlessly shifting, season by season.
I find myself wanting to be everywhere and everything all at once. I want it to be spring, summer, fall, and winter, all contained within a single moment. I want to be both here and there, alone and together, both hungry and fed. But life is disappointingly linear, confined by time’s relentless march. I feel minuscule, trapped in the forward crawl of days and months, constantly reaching for something I can’t quite grasp.
When I think back to other seasons, I remember that haze of cigarette smoke from when everything felt disposable. People were interchangeable, their lives only temporary fixtures in mine. But even among the smoke, some things were unmistakably clear. I remember him standing there, a figure cut through the haze, and somehow, he felt real. And that’s the cruel thing about memory—what we hold onto stays vibrant, even as the world changes around it. The seasons change, and I change, but certain memories refuse to fade.
Maybe this longing, this lingering desire, is something that comes back every fall. As the cold sets in, my eyes start watering, and I can’t tell if it’s from tears or allergies. I think I’m waiting for something that never arrives; something that defies this restless transition from one season to the next, the frigid air keeping me from the expanses (and distractions?) of the outside world.
But I’m learning to live with the ache, the cyclical rise and fall of longing. I keep writing, knowing that some things will always remain unclear, even as I try to capture them on the page. In the end, I’m just a person navigating through seasons, through feelings that burn, melt, and return. Like smoke, they drift, only sometimes taking shape before fading into the air once more.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m too honest, if I’m too willing to hand over the rawest parts of myself. Writing, for me, is like peeling away layers of skin, exposing everything beneath. I sit down with the pen, hoping it will give me clarity, but sometimes the truth only makes things more chaotic. It’s like trying to hold onto a perfect sphere of ice, one that slips through your hands, burning as it goes, refusing to be held for too long.
I try to keep my balance on this tightrope between self-expression and vulnerability. I want so much to be seen—truly seen. But isn’t that dangerous? To crave intimacy while holding the knowledge that someone could hurt you, that they might just turn away? Maybe that’s why we all try to play it cool, balancing those fragile spheres of ourselves on high shelves, keeping them safe and untouched. But I keep wanting to reach out and shatter the barriers that keep us separated. I crave the connection, the deep resonance that can only come from being entirely, dangerously open.
It takes courage to keep going. Disappointment hurts in a way that’s hard to describe, like a bruise that never fully fades. And I’ll admit, sometimes I just want to give up—not in every way, but in some ways. It would be easier to pull back, to shield myself from these jagged edges. And yet I don’t. Despite everything, I still reach out, hoping one day I’ll find that mutual understanding that makes the risk worth it.
And you keep trying to change and improve yourself, hoping you’ll be enough for that person. But they don’t care. They don’t really care. Because if they cared about you as a person, and all of your other qualities truly mattered to them, then they wouldn’t have left. Or ignored you. Or chosen not to apologize. Respect isn’t a gesture of politeness but a recognition, a kind of validation that makes you feel whole.
But I’m starting to think that maybe being “enough” for someone else isn’t the right goal. I try not to be boring. I want to be more than just a pretty face or a fleeting thought. I want to be something substantial, something that lingers—more than a momentary flicker, more than just a wisp caught in the winds of fate. I want to be the sound that rings in your ears, something powerful and undeniable.
There are moments when everything is so clear, like the sound of little popping firecrackers I hate so much. Every emotion is sharp, and vivid. And I realize that I want to be so much more than my corporeal form, something beyond mere flesh and bones. I want to shine brightly, like a star warping the time and space around it, bending everything closer to a single point. Maybe then I wouldn’t need to seek validation from anyone but myself.
Each of these feelings—the desire to be seen, the yearning for connection, and the nostalgia for what’s slipped away—are pieces of a larger whole. They’re not separate; they cycle through me, over and over, like the changing seasons. It’s as though I am the sum of all these conflicting parts, each one informing the other, creating a life that’s both beautiful and painfully transient. Maybe I’ll never have complete clarity, but maybe that’s the point. In the end, it’s not the clarity I need, but the courage to embrace the uncertainty, and to live each season as it comes. The writing is just a funny side effect.
