I’m glad I wasn’t involved as my parents named me. I’m glad I didn’t need to chose what I would be called for the rest of my life. It’s the first thing we ask a new acquaintance although it doesn’t have meaning yet. We define what our name will mean to the world and to each person in it. Even as I present the parts of myself I feel most comfortable with to friends, I hide the parts I can’t appreciate. Does this mean these characteristics are inherently bad? Not necessarily. My dislike of them could be an unusual opinion. I guess a name isn’t really that important when it can mean a different thing to every person we meet and even their appraisal is in constant flux, receiving new information based on longer exposure and tweaking the definition to accommodate. Friendship is a bit like science, the leading theories change with the times as do the major league players in making them. Subjects fade in and out of public thought, an idea that seems brilliant can be disproved the next day.
I know many beautiful people. They chose to spend time with me. Why is it that we are so open to seeing the good in others and blind to it in ourselves? We are constantly walking on a hair between self deprecation and bigotry, always wary of stepping off onto one side or another. I respect my friends and I am confused why such amazing people can stand to be with me let alone seek out my companionship and conversation.
People can be disappointing. Beyond this, people can hurt other people. Some are victims of unintended vollies of manipulation and cruelty. Ironically, some have fallen into calling this love. I did. After months free from the chains of a confusing relationship with a confused person, this lost love rears it’s head. But I see it for what it always was, a mangled and distorted manifestation of longing. Wanting love so desperately that we fabricate it as best we can and live within the tapestry we weave for ourselves ignoring reality. Pushing him away wasn’t hard all those months ago because the wound was fresh, I was aching and I blamed him. He had broken me. I was no longer the person I had been. My name meant something different to me, but I didn’t want that change to ripple throughout my sphere of influence. Blocking out memories and communication, trying to forget. Every wall can be breached by one determined enough to keep climbing.
I am not a beautiful person. This is the fact of my existence. Maybe there are no beautiful people in the world, we’re all just playing dress up and wearing masks to cover our hideousness. When someone sees your true face and thinks it’s beautiful you will love them. If they mistreat you, you’ll forgive them, knowing tomorrow they will say you are worth something, and because you cannot fathom that you are worth anything at all it is music to your ears.
What does my name mean? Who’s opinion defines who I am? How can I be myself when I don’t know who I am?
Why do I care what one person thinks?
I can be disappointing. Missing my company shows the weakness of human memory. If I can remind you of my true nature, will you leave me then? Is it worse to be alone or pestered by entrenched mists from a past I tried to bury?
No comments:
Post a Comment