I am a fraud. Even in blogging I have been an imposter.
I have said all the right things, laid out the foundation for true introspection but continue to edit thoughts in my head; sifting through words like an interior designer considering paint swatches. My need to analyze, control, evident on the page. Writing from the heart should induce word vomit. A desire to expel thoughts onto the page which forces my fingers to flay wildly across the keyboard in order to keep up.
I am approaching my trial relocation with an open mind, eager to try and learn new things. There are lots of people here willing to help you reconnect with your body and spirit. I am learning about chakras and numerology. Here again, mental me struggles not to dismiss their hippy dippy propositions for positive change outright. Some I have adopted. I now talk to cannabis, asking my weed to heal me and inspire me before partaking (can’t hurt). But there are limits to my inquisitiveness. When I was asked during yesterday’s massage if I would like spearmint dabbed on my clitoris? “Why would I want that?” I asked, decidedly certain that I did not know this woman well enough. Some explanation about energy and a slight burning but all I could think of was why she would want to fish around for any of her client’s clits?
Not what I set out to write about today. Am I writing from the heart or stalling?