Positivity

I have recently embarked on a new path in my life. I am trying to be more positive. Trying to look at past humiliations, and heartaches as lessons instead of failures. Trying to "change one thing" as my Mother would say. This sounds like is should be easy. Like you wake up one day, and there are cartoon birds fluttering above your head chirping "Afternoon Delight". You hop up, dust off your pinafore, and begin your new chipper way of being. Not so easy when you are by nature one of those people who make Richard Lewis look like Katie Couric.

I started thinking about all the advice I had been given over the years. Oddly enough, the few bits I had committed to my very essence were all fairly bleak. It hit me that of all the things in my life I could have held on to, I had grabbed on to the things that sting. I had written my own sort of law without even realizing it, and it did not include one much in the way of sunshine and butterflies. They include the following.

-"People are like onions, the closer you get to their heart, the more they stink."
-"Wish in one hand, and shit in the other, and see which one comes up full."
-"Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one, and they all stink."
-"You never go back to your first love, you never marry your first love."
-"If it feels good to you, it feels good to someone else, too."
-"Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes time and annoys the pig."

I realized today, that the hardest thing about life may just be changing what is in someone's brain. From something as trivial to trying spinach when you believe you hate it, to attempting to change a white supremacist into a hip-hop lover. Changing the very core of who you are is a terribly long, and difficult process. When I begin the negative thought, I have to not only stop the thought, but realize I am having it, and one up it with a positive thought. It's quite draining mentally. Kind of like ping pong...only you're playing both ends of the table...with your hands tied behind your back...blindfolded...on ice...and the ping pong ball is actually that weird killer orb from "Phantasm"...and your naked....Get my drift?

I have decided I want to be someone new. I really like who I am inside. I think I have things to offer. I think I have a good heart. I think I am a good friend. I just want to bring the person I know I can be to the pole position, instead of the current person who relies on sarcasm and pessimism like vitamins. As of today I have adopted a new life philosophy..."If I don't stop breathing, there really are no problems." Surrounding myself with positivity. Grouping myself with proactive people. Finding myself "inside" friends instead of giving away who I am with nothing in return. Today I become the person I've always wanted to be, and THAT is pretty bad ass. Especially when I realized I'm pretty happy with who I've been hiding all along.

Welcome to the new Moll-ennium.

The Writer.

I can not see any more. I can not feel the hurt as it burns into my skin. The sorrow that wells with the hope of one more person crossing my path unaware of my existence. The pain grows, and moves inside of my soul. It is always there. Sometime, I can quiet the sounds. Sometimes I can pretend that they are not there. That I am here, and I am fine. That I am just like everyone else on the street. I am nameless, and faceless, and no one notices me, because I am the same as everyone else. I always arise, though. I always know that there is something not whole. Something that eats at me. So, I write. I write, and I write, and I write. I tell funny stories. Observations. Truths as they are, and as I wish for them to be. I play things over and over in my mind until they are perfect, as they should have been in life. I imagine myself as the heroine, and some nameless faceless man as the oracle who sees through it all and loves me with no limitations. I write all of these things, and then I finish. All these thoughts, emotions, hopes, now have a black and white scar to re-visit. They all have a part of my inside poured through my outside onto a canvas someone may see, or could go an eternity without ever knowing its existence. It should get better. It should. It does for seconds at a time. It feels as though it could heal...but it weeps, and it festers. It soon opens again to find my tears falling like stars. Brilliant. Shining. Dying. The pain comforts me, and fits like an old glove. It warms me, and reminds me that without it, I have nothing to feel at all. Without pain, I am a smiling, glowing representation of some celluloid interpretation of the way people should be. The sparkling, faceted shadow of a prism of false moments. For the things I love do not love me back. The wishes I've spent do not come back to relive. The things I create do not create me. The tomorrow I should have had never comes. And still...I write, and I write, and I write...and it holds the pain like a levee. When will that no longer be enough? When will the levee break?