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Making Time for Security Blankets

I began typing up a new entry earlier today (it will technically be yesterday by the time this is posted), and was interrupted and asked to come downstairs at precisely the same moment that I realized…I shouldn’t have been writing it with intent to share in the first place.

Blogging is difficult for me.  When I do it, I can feel the little tug from the past saying, “Hey, You…You used to enjoy me.  Remember?  You used to tell me everything.  What happened to You?”

I’m a different person now; that’s not a bad thing.  I enjoy taking my personal steps back from my writing.  I enjoy my life being mine.  I enjoy my stories being their own.  My life and my writing coexisting so closely?  Well…it’s just not as appealing to me as it once was.  Sure, I put little bits and pieces of myself into everything that I write.  It’s completely different.  If you write books about characters that have their own lives and experiences – where those lives and experiences do not coincide with your own – you will understand what I mean when I say that it’s different.  I prefer it that way.  I enjoy my privacy – or having as much privacy as I want to allow myself. 

The point of this being that it’s so funny how things seem to happen at precisely the right time.

Is that our own mind adapting to circumstances and situations, growing from them and MAKING any time the right time?  Or is it something simpler, yet indescribably more difficult to explain?  Do we make the right time, or is the right time made for us?  Hmm…It’s definitely something to ponder over.

That question is more relevant to my life at the moment than I can fully explain.

I’ve spoken of headspaces before, but I will say that during the past week or more, I’ve been stuck inside of a worse one than any I’ve been stuck inside of for a very long time.  I’d forgotten what it was like.  It was something I never thought I’d forget; I believe that alone speaks wonders towards the natural progression of life.

Headspace.  Right.

Finally though, after everything had seemed so dark…a little light of hope appeared.  It sounds lame, I know, but it’s true.  It was unexpected, but what was more unexpected was the massive amount of clarity gained from that tiny light’s illumination.  I’d been so focused on the negatives that I didn’t realize all of the other things connecting themselves inside of my head – working themselves out naturally.

I’d already worked out my plan for my books, but I hadn’t worked out my plan for my life.  The realization that it had worked itself out somewhere in the back of my head – without my knowledge or permission, mind you – hit me slowly.  I don’t really feel comfortable with anything unless I have a plan for it.  Yes, I’m aware that you can plan and prepare for as long as you like and, more often than not, it won’t work out the way you thought or intended.  That’s not why I do it.  I do it for the structure and the security.  In fact, you really could compare the feeling of it to a security blanket for my head.  It makes me feel better.  Safer.

Right now?  I feel better.

I’ve been sitting here staring down at the keyboard for several minutes with a little grin on my face.

I have always, always been a mess.  Until I started writing books, I had absolutely no feeling of purpose in life – no direction or motivation; I was just going through the motions, enjoying what I could and getting through the things that I couldn’t.  I was 22 years old when I discovered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life – the thing that I couldn’t live without.  Earlier than some, later than others.  Enough time to get me the experience at life that would make me good enough at writing about it.  I’ve made enough mistakes to learn from them, and I’m at the appropriate distance from those things that I’m capable of looking at them objectively and turning them into positives.  But even after discovering that – my love in life – everything else was an endless question mark.  Wants and don’t-wants traded spots on their respective lists periodically, depending on the circumstances and the time.

Now, at 25…in this moment?  I think I’ve got it.

Happy late birthday to me.

It was worth the lateness.

Suddenly, being closer to 30 than 20…Well…It doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

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