Time and Tide

I’m trying to be kind to myself.

I’m a good person, but am I?

Sometimes I don’t care about other people’s shit.

But sometimes I really do.

I don’t steal or lie or hit.

But maybe one day I could.

Maybe one day I will lose it and lash out.

And then all the goodness will come undone.

What do good people do?

Do they give to charity?  Help old ladies across the street?

Do they knit scarves for homeless hamsters?

How many lives am I expected to live, to be able to fit in all the things I’m supposed to be doing?

There’s not enough time.  There never seems to be enough.

I’m running out.

Existential bullshit.

My life has always been fraught, stretched thin – me holding on for dear life.  Often I sense I am squeezing all the joy out of every tiny moment, so fixated on being one with myself and the Universe.  Sometimes I can’t get out of my own way.  I want so desperately to live a full and content life.

I beg the Universe for guidance.  I follow the phases of the moon, read my horoscope, diagnose my own personality disorders.  All with the hope of understanding and bettering who I am.
Someone once describe me as being tightly coiled like a spring – like one day I might finally snap.  I don’t feel like someone who might go on a shooting rampage.  But then the older I get the less I feel I know about myself.
I try to be chill.  But even when I’m listening to music (which I’ve only recently given myself permission to do again) or reading a book, I worry that I’m just escaping, disappearing so I don’t have to face the reality of my reality.
I’m stuck between eternal navel gazing and tapping out of my own life.
I can’t seem to find a balance.
As a child I learnt that feelings and expressing them were an inconvenience.  They made other people uncomfortable.
So instead I turned my discomfort into actions.
I became a human doing.