Le Thargy

I'm so unbelievably tired. I'm not sure what it is exactly. My body is almost as temperamental as my mind. Monotonous laziness can get me just as tired as a fully-packed, adrenaline-filled schedule. And.... Eh. Who am I kidding? I just need a reason to gripe.

The truth of the matter is, I've reached an even plateau of comfort, and though I don't want the streak to end, I'm also very aware that it will end eventually. In the past, my fear of said ending would lead me to a downward spiral of shameless debauchery. My theory was "If it's gonna end, I should at least have power over when it ends."

But times, they are a-changin', and life - it seems to be getting easier. Sure, the bills are piled sky-high, there's still that lifetime student stuff to contend with, and there will always be moments when I feel unsure/strange/insignificant. But truly, seriously, definitely: Life is what it is, and what it is is Good. To say more seems like overkill.

I biked for twenty minutes today, then used the elliptical for another 15 before lifting weights for half an hour and working on my writing for two hours. This was while cooking breakfast and lunch and hydrating myself like a poached salmon. It's been weeks since I really worked out, and I surprised myself with my endurance; I hardly broke a sweat during my exercise session, and was able to keep up a full conversation without getting winded. Skimping out on meat and poultry seems to be working some kinda magic on me!

In other Maria-news, I'm reading several books, one of which, Cloudsplitter, was given to me by Jazz Star Crony. It's an amazing book that has me thinking about its passages hours after I put it down, and I constantly find myself rereading entire chapters to take note of how everything spirals out and then ties back in; needless to say, I don't think I'll finish it any time soon.

Baby brother is applying to jobs, and will hopefully get one soon. Dad's working two jobs. Mom's looking for a second job. I'm working several part-time gigs. And homelife is awesome. Maybe it's my imagination, but it feels like all of us have our heads on straight.

So I'm thinking about Latina Princess, the minor setbacks at my gigs, the tiny dramas of day-to-day existence - getting into an argument with a woman on the street or explaining again to Would-Be Romantic why we're not going to work out or flirting with a co-worker who swears he and his girlfriend just broke up or meeting a handsome stranger and going home with him - and I'm realizing why I don't write about any of that here.

Those things are definitely more fascinating than this even-handed existence that I've carved out for myself, but they're too precious to put up on some public venue - especially a public venue that defines itself as non-fiction. These juicy details of life, the sifting through of hard-won resolve, the stories that I will only tell when someone is in a similar situation: they need to be hidden under the guise of fiction. And knowing that, seeing this entire paragraph in print, makes me realize just how much I've changed. Not too long ago, I needed everyone to see my insides. I needed acknowledgement and validation. I needed understanding and comradery. I needed and begged for all of these petty verifications from strangers of who I am and what I'm about.

But now I realize there's so much more of me to give, and by only showing off those loud facets of my personality, I limited the possible interactions I could've had with others. It's okay to talk about sex and gangs and violence and drugs and bare those mistakes and cuts and scars. It's okay to mention my perfect pussy lips or the light bag my connect tried to sell me as a pound. But how about the other parts of me? The artist? The daughter? The revolutionary? The thinker? The teacher? The pioneer? If I don't give these facets of my personality time to shine, can I blame people for not realizing they exist?