So I’m a grown woman watching Moana by myself on a Saturday night and naturally, feeling a little broody. Not because of my lack of a social life or anything because this is literally how I live, but rather, the state of everything else in my life.
If you saw my last post, you know I was let go from my job. I haven’t worked up the courage to call my previous job to see if I’m still in the system or if I could get back on the schedule. Truthfully, I don’t want to. I had a good potential job possibility lined up, but I’ve heard nothing. I can’t go on in limbo forever…
To cut to the chase, I’m not well emotionally. I haven’t been for awhile, but this kind of feels like the last straw. I should go to the doctor. Sounds so easy when I type it out like that. I’d forgotten how hard it was to get out of bed without the responsibility of a job—it wasn’t super easy then, either.
“See the line where the sky meets the sea? It calls me.”
How many times have we heard a line like that, seen a plot like this? Especially if you were raised on Disney, like me.
“Every path I make, every road leads back to the place I know—
where I can not go—where I long to be.”
These plots have always been my favorite, and I never tire of them. These lyrics are perfectly designed for me and not just because Lin Manuel Miranda wrote them. The idea of some inner pull, a destined call that guides us to where we’re meant to be? That’s the good shit, ya’ll. That as you grow you’re going to naturally be inclined towards specific things that will put you exactly in your spot, the spot you were meant to be in.
I can admit I’ve been in situations where upon looking back, every insignificant detail fell ridiculously into place in order to get me to that moment. It was spine-tingly and delicious, alright. A little freaky, too. But I think it also felt really similar to the way I always imagined those fictional characters felt when their movies/books/stories came to the climax.
But life’s not a movie, alas. Or a book, damn it all. When a chapter ends, another begins over and over. Then you die.
I know I said I was depressed, but I promise I’m not trying to be depressing.
As a child, writing was my first love. I would come home and spend my entire afternoon crafting really terrible stories on Microsoft Word in one singular paragraph that would go on for twenty pages. I’m not kidding. I wanted desperately to write books.
In middle school I kept journals stacked on top of my text books and between classes and during quiet times I would write, and write, and write. I can remember holding my wrist as my hand cramped so I could keep writing. Friends at school would pass my journals around every few days to keep reading my stories, always ready for another chapter. I wanted desperately to write books.
I guess my question is, where does the passion go inside of us?
Surely it doesn’t leak out with sweat or tears. This is the most I’ve written in over a year and it’s like pulling teeth even though I think I still desperately want to. I’m not sure. Maybe I so desperately just want to feel things again. If this were a movie (boy would it suck) I assume this is the sad ballad part, or the depressing reprise using a similar refrain from the happier opening number.
But it’s getting harder to be so sure about the next chapter. I’m so very tired of feeling uninspired. I’ve always believed the passion was buried inside of me—because where else could it go? Where does it go? I still haven’t found it.
When I had this idea I meant it to be uplifting…
Not feeling up to it these days I suppose,
but I am still processing, so there’s that.
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Regardless, thank you so much for being here.
Reading my words means more to me than you know.
♥ Becca N.