(A Stream of Consciousness)
I wish that I didn’t panic when the the camera stares at me. For once, I would like to not worry about if my skin is too shiny or have to remember which angle will conceal some perceived flaw. Wish that my smile boasted the same enthusiasm that my laughter does when the moment’s not being snapped. Then I’d have an album of photogenic memories to choose from and could join those Facebook challenges.
I wish that I didn’t worry about if the rice will come out sticky, and if so, should I discard it or just let it be. Because Lord knows just how badly one pot of mucky rice can ruin an entire meal – just how unflattering it looks on the plate. It’s a silly concern with very little truth to it, I know. But, anyway. I probably should just go ahead and buy that rice cooker and call it a win.
I wish that I wasn’t overly concerned with driving through the state of New Jersey after dark. Worried that one wrong turn will lead me onto a winding exit that will then connect me onto a highway heading in the opposite direction of where I need to go. Then I’ll be forced to pull over on the side of a darkened road – probably stretches of miles away from the nearest anything – to catch my breath and start over. I mean, it’s not as if my high beams, or phone, aren’t functional. Wish that I could wander as boldly through my homeland and marvel at the newness when lost just as I do when traveling on foreign ground.
I wish that I didn’t put so much emphasis on whether my handwriting is as beautiful as the soft leather journals that I buy to store these reflections. Wish that the remnants of ripped out pages that once contained scratched through or misspelled words didn’t constantly remind me that my need for perfection made me miss the mark. Now I’m left with one too many empty journals and forgotten revelations.
I wish that these scraps of nothing didn’t often consume so many of my thoughts. And that whenever they invade my consciousness, I could swiftly dump them in the “Let That Shit Go” pile and set it ablaze. Wish that I could declare that revealing this to you has been cathartic and that I’m now healed. But, alas, not yet. Not tonight anyway.
I’m working on it though. Truly, I’m working on it.
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