There are a plethora of lifechanging experiences to be had. In the form of puberty, highschool, university, peace corps, conversions, deaths, and the general rowdyness in between. Some are slow, running like mud through your fingertips, you only see the fruit of such experiences until you burp it up years later. I like to think of those types of experiences as the ones where you call up your former grade school teacher and tell her she’s the whole reason you ever decided to become President (of course, after you win the election).
I don’t know what i’m really trying to say here. but sometimes I wish I would just shutup. Times like this, I really wish I played the guitar- then i’d lie against my bed all evening long, strumming a tune and trying to let my emotions come out in a poetic melody. I don’t know what my poetry right now is, and in that I find myself guilty of not being able to recognize myself.
I keep asking for advice from my friends. And they give it: softly, with reason, full of rational logic and wrapped in complete love. This is when I feel like a child, except not- i feel misunderstood. Sometimes there is no recipe. Something I cannot wear as a banner any longer (my grief) is still a key element of what brought me to Israel, what brought me into the current state of lack of relationship with someone dear to me and what brought on the confusion that breeds in places that I cannot be sure will be swept away with the seasons.
If what happened in my life was beyond my control, and without reason, and made no sense to anyone. And if I am the only one to have experienced it in my own recipe and live through it. Then how can I seek coping advice from those who have never experienced the aftermath of dealing with life after tragedy? Am I making any sense. G-d I hope so.
Sometimes I become a cruel child, i want things i don’t want- say things i don’t mean. And i know I brought a lot of things on myself, I laugh and act normal, so therefore I am treated as so. I kiss and dance like the next girl, so I am expected to be normal, no one notices the prosthetic I have around my heart so that I can run with the other kids on the playground. No one realizes that when I took my break outside in the sun today, I stared at the ground and remembered this time, 2005 in Haifa- there’s a video of me laughing and flirting with the camera. Tsiki’s voice is taunting me as I skip around him. and as if to silence that thought all I say to myself is: shit. I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe they both died.
Man oh man, it’s such a fruitful life, and so painful as well- but so fucking beautiful at the same time, such a realization just adds to my confusion of how to keep my wings on glide gear: to give myself a soft landing and in return, do my best to give others their landing as well. But sometimes, I need to stop taking myself so seriously. and when he that is close to you says in frustration “sooz, this past year and a half with you hasn’t been the easiest of things”- . I should simply reply- “i know what you mean, cuz baby..being me ain’t easy” end it with a note from my Harmonica in C-Chord and let him glide on another nest, instead of trying to explain why he was such a beautiful part of my world.
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