Letter #1

Dear Future Reader,

A mystery. The goal? To find the better me.

Scratch that.

See! See how lost I am? I don't even know how to begin! I used to be such a sunny side up gal. Now I sit Indian style on bamboo flooring in a white beach house with black shutters that are always closed. I hear the roar of the ocean and smell the sea salt, but my tongue hesitates to slip a quarter of an inch out to taste.

When I meet people, I smile I listen, but I don't let their good juju in nor my nebulous neutrons out. We speak, our words float commingled between us, my adjectives next to their nouns, but nothing is taken in, absorbed or altered in me. I'm a walking microcosm of unspoken and unshared. My hurt, sometimes rage, is at all the swallows with closed eyes we gotta do and whatever head nods.

I mean the detours, side trips, dumb decisions, another-bad-idea-gone-wrong moments (or years!) -- we've all had'em. They happen! But I can't seem to shake the last ba-JUNGA off of me. I can't get back on the horse, so to speak, after the fall ... and I know I should.

I don't want to live this way anymore. I don't. I used to feel hope, hope for me, for others, for the possibility of goodness in the every day, however minuscule. I generously encouraged this hope-believing thing with others, even strangers (most especially with strangers) and I sincerely want to live that way again. That's who I am. Not this ... this bitterina ballerina doing a no man's land dance. 

Till Next Time,

Me