To Be Loved First

“Thoughts,” the wise man once said, “leads to action, action leads to habit, habit leads to destiny.”

This post was inspired by my newest, dear friend, Mel Gutiér, AKA Fiction In My Head. Mel is the big sister I’ve always wanted around. Frankly, you should skip this post, it’s quite boring, trust me; head straight over to Mel’s blog. Her style of writing will ensnare you, you’ll fall madly in love, along with her character and personality. I especially love her posts that are simply raw, truthful, and always powerful with insight. If you get anything out of this post it’s this: go straight to her blog!

Everybody has a chapter they don’t read out loud.
I’ve failed in more things than I can count in my house, which might only imply that I may need to buy more furniture. Truth is, not understanding failure may have been my single biggest mistake, that is, not taking a loss as personal. I was baffled at how friends would get so upset over a friendly competition. I never strived to be better than the other person, or humiliate them in a dehumanizing way, even if they deserved it. I wasn’t looking to level up, but realize now that I was simultaneously doing a disservice to everyone around me- no one would be pressured to improve or strive for The Climb. Instead, my arms cradled itself in sleeves like barbed wire around a bird in its soft cage, barred before the big bad world, because I gave a fuck about my feelings more than anything else i.e. the bigger picture, collectively.
This is an element of selfishness. I’m not even being gender specific because when it wedged between siblings we would scrap for everything; little sister was just notoriously more stubborn than me.

I realize that the one thing I’ve been doing consistently, be it when naturally distracted in class, rather than doodling, sitting around, waiting for life to happen to me, looking for an insight, looking for an outlet, boredom, inspiration, frustrations, music; I was indeed writing. I’ve actually read many books without retaining shit, I was looking elsewhere: I analyzed its sweet science. How the writer manipulated the words, the beauty of their timing, the precision in their delivery, the accidental throwaways that set up an opening for a bigger punch that will hit me long after setting the book down.  
I never cared for those drunken college football games I was invited to, I was simply there for birdwatching. Writing was my sport-lyrically, metaphysically, artfully, tastefully, poetically; diabolically. During quiet times in elementary school we would write in our daily journals, all I knew were action figures, cartoons, and Calvin and Hobbes; describing these childish pastimes was where it all began. 

I’ve taken a back seat in almost every part of my life. Going with the flow whichever way It took me, with plenty of free passes. I wasn’t being realistic, I was being hopeful, but believed in myself enough to be at least average or slightly above. The grit and grind that I missed out on, is severely taking toll as I learn of the imperativeness of time and my impatience to create content, yet, I understand that patience is a staple in any long term game. I accept the way things panned out, now it’s time to slay a dream that no one can see, but me.

When you feel a solemn, somber, yet delightful tone amongst a shade of afternoon in the crevice of your transition back to the office, you’re feeling something that most people miss, when you paint the words on paper you actualize it for someone to digest your interpretation of something. When an instrumental moves deeply there’s a direct connection with (God) – sometimes words are insufficient and cannot grasp the full expression, although we try; I know I do. 
I believe that every writer is a renaissance man/woman. They’re tuned into all forms of the arts, regardless of playing an instrument or not.

How do we know what love is? If our parents loved us first, then we simply learned to reciprocate that love. In the same vein, I don’t think I love writing, I truly believe that writing sought after me; the same way my writing might have sought after you.

It’s probably a form of OCD, not gonna lie, nobody obsesses over a couple sentences for hours, like I do.

Thanks for dropping by,
Love you.