As I reflect on the last four years, I look to my notebook. When I purchased it, it was brand new with 'perfect' unfrayed edges, embossed leather, no rips, no tears (and no tears), no scribbles from trying to use dried out pens, no inky blots. The paper was fresh and new, not too white but not too yellow. The lines had incredible potential and each page was like rebirth. Over time, lines and pages swelled with my thoughts, automatic writings, poems, quotes, pictures from dreams and dreams, and tears did fall, only to be soaked up like invisible ink. When I was alone, my notebook collected my thoughts and feelings, and relieved me, momentarily, of pain that didn't physically exist. I struggled with losing things, and people, and when ears had heard enough, my notebook never tired of repetitive thoughts. Towards the end of my notebooks journey, I was overly expressive.
I guess I'm just highly sensitive and emotional, despite how I choose to put myself on display. I know exactly who I am and what I want in this life. I understand how my surety could be rather unsettling, but I've known myself since I was four, and I have a clear vision. I know I am exactly where I should be and I take initiative. I may make others feel uncomfortable, but I'm not afraid to do what I think is right or needs to be done. I worry about the outcome, whether or not my actions will drive someone away, but I put my selfish fear aside because we're all here to learn and I can't let my fear of losing someone get in the way of helping a soul. I have to live authentically, but I don't ever want to hurt someone, even though my choice to be helpful can be quite painful for both of us.
