{ mama says I think too much. }

Every time I write, I am hoping to somehow forge my identity. I want to be figuring something out, in some capacity of life. Each time it's painful, like giving birth. But I imagine, when one gives birth, the resulting "product" is almost always "perfect" in the eyes of the mother. I have a hard time imagining a woman going through all the pains of labour, only to see her child and say, "Hmmm... eh." So either this is not at all like giving birth, or I am a terribly vain mother.

I am broken, I know. That thought is rarely far from my mind. And if that knowledge ever dissipates for a moment or two, the emotion I experience in its stead I can only ascribe to the Divine desiring that I would feel as I should indeed feel, instead of how I tell myself I should feel. The problem with me is that I am so often reticent to adhere to what the Divine says. I don't think any of us are, and therein lies the greatest struggle of life. I believe that.

I have always lived in story. For as long as I can remember dreaming through the waking hours, I have crafted a story for myself. The majority of this story lies in my head. But tonight as I was driving through the nighttime countryside, through the fields now devoid of corn and wheat, I tried to imagine myself in a story that wasn't written by me at all. In that story, I had just spent the evening with my dad, watching movies and playing with kittens, and was on my way back to my now deceased Grama's house, listening to Afro-Panamanian music from the 60's and 70's, smoking a cigarette, trekking over railroads and bridges in a Jeep Grand Cherokee. All the while, my mind was pulling so hard at placing me in some other setting. Some other place in time. And I wanted so much to be exactly where I was, knowing exactly where I had in fact been. This is one of my deepest struggles.

There is a constant discussion as to whether or not fate exists. Some of us call it predestination. Most people seem to hold to either extreme conclusion, it does or does not exist. I can't say I can know for sure in this life, but I can suppose that it falls somewhere in the middle. Rather, it is both. It does exist as an inevitable story that has already been written- what is going to happen is going to happen, absolutely. But what inevitably happens in the story that was already inevitable, is still the result of most of the decisions we very freely and intentionally make. Although I will say that in this life A does not always surely equal B, and B does not always surely equal C. This world is perpetually upside down in most ways. So perceiving life as some sort of mathematical equation will certainly disappoint.

For as unsure as I often am in this life, that last paragraph contained a great many words describing a sense of some absolute. But being unsure is one thing, understanding one's lack of control over most things is another. Maybe this is pointless to speculate about or delve into. It seems impossible to try to explain it, and I am beginning to fumble my thoughts. Although, I know I am on to something. A potentially arrogant remark. But saying that now, I believe I am. The fact still remains however, that trying to explain what I am actually thinking is near impossible. My brain just does not carry the words I need at present.

Anyway. What does any of this say about my identity? Not a damn thing. I don't know my ass from my elbow for the most part. And having to travel to Ohio was not something I asked for, although I accept it so warmly. I love that I could spend time with my Grama, live in her house and tend to her things for a time after her passing. It is good healing. And hopefully healing in other ways I can hardly perceive at this point. Life feels so often like Limbo. The whole mess of it, like a free-for-all waiting room. So deciding on what exactly I am going to do while I am waiting always eludes me. And maybe it's my perpetual inclination to feel like I have to decide something, which leads me astray. Heaven help me. This baby's got too many questions for her own good. But that being said, I think we are all crafted in a certain way, specific to a cause, and this is why community is such a gift. I overlook this often. For example, my roommate is a man very different from myself. I believe we share the same ideas of living, values and perceptions on the world, similar interests and hopes, all things to make for an excellent living situation. However, our internal wiring, our synapses, fire very differently, and coming to a place where I have an idea of why he does what he does, or his idea of why I do what I do has been almost difficult. I should say, his persona differs from mine to an extreme. But if it weren't for that difference, I would not have learned as much as I have from him. I can see, where in knowing him, some of the rough inner edges of my heart have been smoothed out. He was placed in my life. And for that I am very grateful. It almost makes me aim to seek others who are so seemingly unfamiliar in thought than myself. I'm not sure if that last sentence made sense. Regardless, it should be said that due to this, any sense I have of my specific identity is irrelevant. Along the road, that is both inevitable and free, I am forever changing. And if I were to decide on several things to define me, some rock solid attributes that I decided to forever follow my name, I would be doing myself a great disservice. Why would I ever want to be so solidly affiliated with anything, save the Divine, which at this point is all I can direct my hand towards when asked who I am. Saying that makes me uneasy. But I see truth in it, which is not to say I won't spend the rest of my life, however long that may be, hashing it out with God. I'm not generally one for religion, but I do wholeheartedly support relationship. Because all humanity was built for it. It's in everything we do. And THAT is something I am going to think about for the rest of the night. And you, dear reader, might want to do the same.

I had no idea what this baby would look like. For the most part, it was a relatively painless labour. At the end of it however, when I look at it, I can hardly see a resemblance between the two of us. I still think, "Hmmm... eh." And I wonder why this baby has so many damn questions. And why she won't shut up.

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