Cut From The Same Cloth

This post is a long time coming. But I warn you now, my thoughts won’t be cohesive. I think I’m done with trying to make my world make sense to anyone else. I’m through with giving you a little Polaroid of my life that contains the part of me I want you to see. So I’ll write what I think. What I feel. And it won’t matter and it won’t be good enough for most. And I won’t care. It’s funny to me that the very few people who know that I write say things to me like “I wish I could write my thoughts the way you do.” That’s funny to me because I really don’t. I really don’t write most of my thoughts and most of my feelings. God, not even close. There’s way too much going on in my head. And I’m afraid that if I write it, it will be true. I’ll have to face it. I can’t deal with that type of vulnerability. And I’m all over the place mentally. I’m a happy person. Whatever that means. I think I just said that so you won’t think I’m a mental case before this post is through. But I am. Happy. Little things make me happy. Like surprises. Good news from anyone. Even people I don’t know. Just good news makes me happy. But I spend a lot of my time also trying not to be devastated over things completely out of my control. Like tonight, I’m driving in my car. And I’m thinking how much I love driving in my car. Alone. Listening to NPR. And a story comes on about a girl who had her lips cut of by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). And I don’t pull over and cry because I know it won’t help. But not understanding why this happens, how this happens, how it is possible for anyone that I share this world with, to cut someone’s lips off is overwhelming my thoughts. I’m not even thinking about the girl really. I can’t let myself imagine what she’s gone through. Not right now. All I can think about is the person with the knife in his hand. He wakes up to the same miraculous sunrise that I wake up to every day. And then he cuts someone’s lips off. And I don’t understand that. And I hate that I don’t understand. It makes me feel out of control and powerless. Aren’t we all cut from the same cloth? How can he have so much hate inside him? Speaking of being cut from the same cloth. I was catching up on my friend B’s online journal the other day. He was giving me a hard time for not writing. So instead of writing, I go and read his journal. B writes my story. Often. I love reading anything he writes. Not because we have a lot in common, we don’t really. I mean, yes, we grew up in the same town, went to the same school, and the funny thing is that his dad got me my first job in a law office when I was 15. But other than that, we’ve lived different lives. But his reaction, his feelings, his thoughts, the discussions he has with himself are all so similar to the way I am. And I love that about people. I love finding something in common with someone I have nothing obviously in common with. I love knowing we are cut from the same cloth and even though our experiences are different, sometimes deep down inside we are seeking the same things out of life. Anyway B, this one’s for you. I’m writing. And yes, it feels good. Thanks for the swift kick in the ass. I owe you one.