The Truth

I don’t like the word overwhelmed.

It makes me feel a little less than.

Sometimes I feel like I am about to run out of shelf room in my heart. I have nowhere left to put anything. There is a pawn shop of memories in there. It is not glamorous. Things are piled on top of each other in dusty clusters. Things I don’t need are curled up in things that are imperative to keep this organ beating and moving forward. All thrown in together, junk and glory as one.

Sometimes I sit in this storehouse. I poke at things. I ignore other ones. I don’t know why I don’t move them out yet or get rid of them. Maybe they hold too much of who I was. Maybe they’re all I have left of who I used to think I was supposed to be. It was hard enough to excavate it, and now I’m supposed to let it go? Pat it on the back and say, “thanks man, we had some good times and we had some terrible times, but the truth is I don’t need you anymore.”

The truth makes it harder.

It usually does…

There is a conveyer belt in my head. It is a smartass. It gets faster sometimes with no evident warning, and it takes patience I don’t have to realize that I am not being attacked by an overabundance of thoughts, but just the same three to five thoughts that usually haunt me. They might not be what you’d expect, but who’s expecting anyway?

As my brain serves me thoughts and circumstances I cannot control, predict, or change up on a platter, my lack of armor tends to lead me back into the pawn shop. Back to the chambers of my heart who seems to know all of the things I don’t yet, or perhaps, just all of the things I am not yet ready to admit. Love is a tricky mistress.

Sometimes I feel like my heart is very old and wears a giant pair of glasses and peers over at me kindly in an infuriating kind of way as I pace around in the pawn shop picking things up, only to put them back down again exactly where I found them.

We walk around this earth and most of us have cultivated these wonderfully appropriate versions of ourselves so other people will accept us. It isn’t good or bad. It just is. People like to hate on social media, but maybe social media just made it easier for us to paint ourselves on a screen instead of having to do all of the work in our day to day lives.

I wonder what would happen if people could see what we keep on our shelves. It could be so disastrous, and it could be so romantic.

Imagine walking into someone’s most private place and seeing your face everywhere.

Imagine meaning so much to a human being that they wallpapered your face around their heart just so that when they retreat there it would feel like home.

I wonder what the world would look like if we knew these things. If we were more open with each other. If we actually spoke what we saw in each other during these key moments that quickly fade into memory and end up on our shelves, and end up In ourselves.

Is there a reason for that?
Is there a pill for that?
Is there a human for that?

Someone who comes in and marks that page of your life, changing everything, so when you look back you just think… holy shit. I didn’t know.

And is it weird to feel nostalgia for the present?

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