I've been thinking a lot about silence lately, ever since someone told me that I am insecure in the quietness of life. Funny, because I always thought I cherished the in-betweens, thriving taking a step back to acknowledge, observe and imagine. But who knows what people actually think you do, or do not, do or are. It's such an impossible feat. But its my mind which worries me, the space above the eyes, where so many things run from day to day, minute to minute. There, it's not so quiet.
I cannot believe its been a month since I actually did something at work. I fret over the fact that I am still in the in-between, the restless calm where many would enjoy but I cannot stand. You have to be optimistic, I tell myself, that there's something/someone out there. I am thankful for the small realizations that I made the right decision. Like Friday. A form of vindication, I'd say. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. Not right now atleast.
It's amazing the types of things people do on a daily basis. I find myself in office, listening to music, helping out, a temporary place for me to pretend I belong. I wonder if these people are happy with their professional lives, if that is even a reality in this day and age. I tell myself to be optimistic, that there's a chance that one can live off their dream. But there can be hiccups, and there's no reason to be insecure. But there are hiccups and you are left insecure. Double guessing on what you keep telling yourself. Its scary to realize or even harvest doubts that your dreams may not actually take place and all they may remain for eternity may be just dreams after all. After all time you spent conjuring them up, working towards them, and all the sacrifices you make. They are nothing but dreams. But... I tell myself to be optimistic.
I was listening to this song called "The Story" by an awesome woman called Brandi Carlile, and I found myself rejuvenated to write. That I have this ability, this chance to express through words is something I have realized not to be taken for granted, and while it has been quiet here, I have been thinking, formulating just what to say. And then here I am, without much to say at all. It's a strange moment when you realize that this thing, the very place you bear your soul, is nothing but a page spun within the millions. And yet even so, it still has a profound effect on the exposure one feels.
I have a feeling I'll look back on this time of my life, and if I ever write a memoir, which I will, this chapter would have a terrible title. In less than a month I'll be turning 23, and one day I'll laugh at how naive I was, how there many more awkward silences, and in-between's to come. Until then I'll be listening to "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd, which brings back a certain memory of much easier times.