One Day Worth Loving
This summer has been strange. Surreal. The weather, my art class, my absent family, house-sitting, babysitting, just trying to keep friendships together -- it's all been a bit too much. And I'm fine, I've gotten through my surgery, I've passed my art class (yea, I aced it), and I didn't screw up too badly with the house-sitting, I think.
In certain ways I've figured out what I want to do with my life, but honestly it doesn't make me feel any better. It's scary to know what you want -- mostly because you then have an even clearer picture of what you stand to loose if things don't work out. I worry all the time that I am not doing what I should be doing, what I need to do. I worry that I am not good enough, that I wont be able to go the distance. My mom tells me that this is just a part of life, but saying that does not make going through it any easier. It's like old men competing over who has the most impressive battle scars. In the end, what does it matter? What else does it prove besides the fact that we all get hurt in life? Just because your wounds are deeper, it does not mean my pain is insignificant, means or hurts any less. And I wish that people would realize that feeling bad is as valuable as feeling good, that they both have their import. I don't want to feel bad my whole life, but I also want to be free to feel as badly as I must without people trying to make me feel guilty and ashamed of it.
Emily Dickinson
XXII
"I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me"