As I do more and more things I’m afraid to do, I come closer with one scrapingly vibrant truth.
I’m going to get weird.
Off and on.
I’m quite certain it will be a progressive thing.
But it’s an inevitable one.
Of course, there’s the fact that I’m bipolar and I’ll also always be kind and sweet and positive and optimistic. Sometimes quiet and kept to myself. Other times boiling blood will drip down strange imagery of shiver-inducing forest scenes in the horror movie that hasn’t been made yet.
Finally, we’ll all be face-to-face with the grinning madwoman inside my bone marrow, striving painfully to rip my skin off.
Isn’t that what we all want?
To strip ourselves down to the bare bones – the most real, vulnerable, risky, ALIVE parts of ourselves – so we can then add them up to the robust and flowery weight we carry and the choices we make and figure out how we maneuver within this construct to make up a real life human being?
Aren’t we all secretly, terrifyingly sick of the secrets, the hiding, the fake we project in this frightened world of souls trying to find truth by hiding, twisting, pretending, and obscuring?
I find I’m already getting weirder. In my day to day life. I care less and less how people will react, what they’ll think. I’m taking risks. It’s risky. It’s baby steps or bust. Everyone has to learn to walk over and over and bloody over again, our whole freaking lifelong.
It’s like unzipping my skin, throwing the dermis on the gritty asphalt and walking into the ritzy white floored hotel for all to see, bloody footprints left behind with every step forward, veins and muscle, bone showing through while pre-packaged pretty lies gasp and point from within their professionally tucked stomachs and reshaped noses.
Everyone down with that?
….Most people, when they’re inspired, they get excited, energized, and ready to go. Me? I get weirder than normal.