Sunday, April 27, 2008

epilogue

"Who is she?"

"I'm sorry."

"Who is she?" I repeated weakly. I couldn't stand to look at him, but I needed to see for myself. I needed to know for sure that it was over.

He didn't open his mouth again, but his eyes told me. They showed the depths of his soul, and I could always read them. They were what drew me to him in the first place. And now all I could see in them was regret.

I stood in disbelief, lips parted, pieces of my hair falling down like the pieces of my marriage.

Uncertainty seemed to be all we had left.

I broke away from his pleading gaze, unwilling to subject myself to any more of this torment. I had to get out. I couldn’t look up. I blindly grabbed a bag and starting grabbing whatever clothing my hands landed on, my eyes fixed downward, afraid to take in any of the reminders that surrounded me. The air stopped short in my chest, and I chanced a glance at my reflection, as I grasped the top of the bureau.

Six years had just been ripped from my soul, and their absence showed.

His figure came into focus just over my shoulder and the stare I had broken off earlier was restored.

“I…I…” My anger had ebbed into pain, the words caught in the back of my throat. “I didn’t think it would end like this. I didn’t think that we’d end. This isn’t what you promised me.”

I turned to face him. I knew that he was unsure of what to do, of what he could possibly offer to me other than the name I demanded. The regret was now edged with sorrow.

“I have to go.”

I clutched the bag, buffering myself from him as I hurried by and out of the house.
Having small group at Starbucks is dangerous and I of course broke my no caffeine after 2 PM rule...I didn't just cross the line, I made a running start towards it and took a humongous leap. Since Starbucks offers the steady brew of Pike's Place roast now everyday it's become more conventional (read: affordable and less snooty) to order a pressed pot's worth of coffee. Since it was meant for sharing, I ordered two, which resulted in me drinking about 3 and half cups' worth, so now I'm slightly wired.

I need to start forcing myself to write...it's not enough to scribble done ideas and snippets of scenes and plot out (very loose) outlines. I need to just buckle down and write, let the story flow, let my character's speak their mind and have the story progress, but I keep getting hung up on this idea of perfection. I think it honestly comes down to the fact that I hate editing, mainly because I know that a good edit needs to come from someone who is not mean which means that I would have to let another person actually read something I write. That is a terrifying thought. I'm not sure why that is.

I've been toying with the idea of not being right all the time. That it is okay, and actually acceptable (rather human) to not be perfect at everything...or at least not be perfect the first time through something. There's something horrifying at taking something on and not being able to accomplish it. That's a weird thought, because I look back at stuff in my life and there's defiantly been a mixture of success with failure; and I know that I got through the failure.

But people like it more when you succeed, when you show them, "hey, I'm pretty good at this and with little prep; I'm sort of prodigy." There's something to be said about that.

That's my pride shining through in a way, I suppose. The ability to take on something I really don't have a right to take on, but somehow am naturally gifted at it and throwing off the curve for my peers. Oh how I would relish in throwing off learning curves. Not only can I grasp this concept better than you, I'll do it three times faster too! School was like when I was kid. And then something happened. That something is still debatable, but the point was, that information could be thrown at me and it would make sense and stick to my brain.

I need to look at the things that I didn't instantly succeed at though, like school the latter years. Not a whole lot of impressiveness going on there. My graduating was a Herculean task; and not for lack of intelligence, but apparently whatever it was that used to motivate me to achieve above exception grades just wasn't there anymore. And it carried onto college. I wonder now, if I were to go back if I would take it more seriously that I would strive to get good grades, that I would be willing to work towards being adequate instead of extraordinary.

Why do I struggle with being adequate? It's a perfectly respectable goal that many people are OK with achieving and not daring beyond. What is my drive to be extraordinary and why would I rather something not at all if it cannot be awesome?

I sound like my whiny 19 year old self again. Does everything in life need to be dissected as much as I like to take apart and over-analyze things? Maybe that's why I'm so good at my job. The surface level is never enough. I have to keep picking and digging until I find the imperfections and eradicate them.

Good for managing databases; bad for living life.

I need to just get over myself and start doing the things all the things I want to do.

But I need to start yesterday.