My mom just read my most recent blog, and she responded to it via a text (she learned how to do this a year ago? or so? and she really, really, really loves to text me). She insinuated that in reading my most recent blog, after this one, that there was so much about me she doesn't know.
And this, as a wanna-be-writer, is one of the most magical things she could have said to me.
She knows me better than any other soul on this Earth (except maybe my cat) and there's still more to come from me. It reminds me that there are a few tricks, stories and tales hiding up my sleeve. Mom knows my demeanor, my wicked temper and my spinning head. But sadly, what she, and some others may not always have the chance to see, are the spaces in me which create calm. The stories and movies in my head. I'm a wild, driven and pugnacious soul, but I am also quiet- that quiet gets lost in the sounds of my maddening voice. There spaces of utter peace within me and for some sad reason, I am mostly, unable to exhibit that part of myself, in reality. I immersed in the world around me.
And when I find my quiet, I remember the softer side of who I am- the girl who loves pink (but is scared to admit it, for fear of being stoned or...worse...deemed feminine. That's another blog).
Thanks Mom, for reminding me that there is more to me than what I've shown. It means there's still time for me. Still time to take the quiet I hear now, and bring it, with me, in my pocket, as I travel outside, in such a noisy world. I use my words to hide that part of me, I suppose. My shield from chaos.
Sad.
Very sad.
How, ever, did it come to this?
But, then, there it is. You write. You are.
And when I write my novel some day, I will make certain that there is a tempered mention of the color pink.
And of a girl who learns to just be...quiet.
And happy.
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