Tales of paradox (from the anger pages)

I am tired of the life I have been living.  I do not know myself thus I do not know how to show up for you, for me.  I am one thing in this moment, and another the next.  I am grounded and steeped in magic this morning, but consumed in the pit of darkness tonight.  I am everything I have been, and all of it has been a fabrication.  I am shifting, shedding, emptying out.  And I am full and stuffed and sick of me and all of it.

I am the universe at times, the magic, the mystery.  And I am all the cliches there ever were, all the psychological labels in the book.  I am angry and go to hell and I am grace and faith and hope.  I am lost, and I have been found, always was.  I am mother and I am destroyer.  I am sweet and furious.  I am love and I am the most profoundly resentful there ever was. I do not forgive or forget, but I also do, way too easily, much too self-betrayingly.  I am blessed and I am cursed.  I am alone and always surrounded by people.

I am swirling and also rooted and anchored.  I am the storm and the calm.  I am the most depressing and oversold version of humanity, and I am unique and wondrous in my beauty and resilience.

I am fucking tired, and the hope in me never seems to want to die.

e.