Sometimes I catch glimpses of who I am on the inside, of who I am when no one else is around and I’m just being. When I’m laying in the grass staring at the way the leaves make patterns in the sky. When I’m curled up on the couch reading a book that pulls my soul out. When I’m sitting on the bench at night, wondering what everyone is doing around me. Am I me? Sometimes I don’t think so. I allow, too much, people to pull me in the direction they’d like and I let myself form to their mold of who I should be. I don’t need to try. I don’t need to push myself to be more. I am all that I am. I just do. I just live. I just am. I’m just being. Sometimes I think about ‘being’ somewhere else. Not a million miles away, but on the porch outside the living room where everyone else is. In the woods where I can pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. I’m too sensitive to pleasing others. I’d like everyone to be happy, and when they’re not I fall apart because I don’t meet up to their standards the way I think I should. I want to be silent. I don’t need to speak. I don’t need to do anything. This is somewhat a beautiful depression I’m running through, because I enjoy it. It’s peaceful, really. Not sad. Maybe I’m just searching for some solitude, my home away from home. I want to sleep on a bed of wooly thyme surrounded by bees and rhododendrons and trees too big to hug. I want to dig my hands in the dirt and feel the green fur of the earth. I don’t want to be any more than I am. So what is the truth of my being? What is my balance of silence and speaking? Of others and self? Of the made up and the reality?
if only it was that simple. i wish.
make your way down to the peaceful-ness of the ocean waves
(via the-moon-was-high)
