Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.
I have never had enough spunk to roll my eyes at anyone. I think at the very core of me is a soft fluff of goodness…I think a diagram is in order:
This is my expert depiction of myself (I can actually draw, just not in this instance, apparently). A big piece of amoeba mold. Amoeold (pronounced like ‘I’m old’). Moldeba (pronounced like ‘mold diva’).
But, boom, all of a sudden I’m clapping, rolling my eyes, raising my voice, and pulling all kinds of crazy stunts in general. I think my years of silent observation are finally culminating into some limbo between intense introversion and survivalist extroversion…making me into sort of an ambivert.
But! It is definitely blurring the lines of my original identity and acquired identity. For so many years I longed to be a smooth sensei of social grace, and now I find myself questioning my identity and sense of self all over again. I used to write and speak in prose, took myself seriously with the power and hormones of youth, and kept to myself, shrouded in depression. And now, after many years of trial and error, I find myself talking and laughing with coworkers and bosses and almost enjoying myself at times (total blasphemy, really).
I don’t know if it’s an age thing or if my creativity and inspiration are slowly evaporating back into the earth whence it came from, but I am straying from my deep appreciation of nature, my love for floral, succulent poetry, hopeless romanticism, and stream of consciousness writing.
I think this calls for a roll-back.