I have a brain. My left brain works in the morning, and my right one takes the graveyard shift. It keeps me up at night, turning me to my parmesan goldfish to keep me awake as I quietly type out the thought that interrupted my dreams. I am the three a.m. snacker. Food makes me stay awake. I am the person who stays up because her head won’t shut down. And I keep myself awake because I can’t let the thoughts pass away and be buried in the cemetery of my mind. It’s too dark down there, and the chances of it coming back up are the same as a dead man rising from his own grave.
I live in this constant fear that my ideas will leave me when I need them most. I am afraid that the most brilliant idea I will ever have will come to me when I don’t have a pen and paper near. I am what I write. I write my ideas. I am afraid of losing my ideas. I am afraid of losing myself.
I am a skeptic. And I question everything.
I am extremely easy to read – my body language could tell you the nature of all my thoughts. But it won’t tell you my thoughts themselves, because you’d have to ask, and I’d have to answer. You could ask, if you wished, but I would be sure to lie. And you will probably know that it is a lie, but you couldn’t get me to tell the truth.
I am bizarre. I can be something one moment and then another the next. I am not reliable. Not constant. I am a mess.
But I am a beautiful mess, I think.
I am God’s mess, and He is fixing me more every day.
I have faith in that.
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