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The colors of my narrative

I’m really struggling to know what I want to say. Maybe it’s a period of silence for me. Silence frightens me, though. Some of the worst things happen in the silence. However, I know that good things happen there too. Recognition. Peace. Self-awareness. All those ideals that are outside the noise.

Shame. Shame grows in darkness and in silence. There is terror in that space.

I have many things to do, to learn, to experience, to feel, to teach, and to say. But it all feels unbearably large right now. There’s this kaleidoscope inside me, and sometimes its colors agitate me. Part of me knows that in the kaleidoscope there is diversity, possibility, beauty—all these aspects speak to me. Yet I cannot reach them. I feel trapped at times in the spectrum without distinction, in the overwhelm of too much. To differentiate these parts of my self would yield bright and blinding truth.

There are stories inside me. I yearn to release them. I wonder if another novel is possible. I want to write my memoir, but a strong voice says it’s not yet time. I’m not sure I can be as honest as I want until I can do so without damaging innocent people. But the truth screams. Six-year-old Alinda needs to be heard.

I want to show you my mess.

I want to write about dancing in the sprinklers, kissing for hours, watching the sunset, losing a loved one, making a bad choice, loving a pet, forgiving someone, forgiving myself, achieving a dream. Where are those things? My fingertips buzz with their potential narrative, but the fear is in charge sometimes, and so the page remains blank.

Today I commit to leaning into the buzz, experiencing the enormity in digestible bits, and believing that maybe truth is both beautiful and ugly. I commit to pondering also the possibility that it is neither beautiful nor ugly. That perhaps it lives in that space that births the buzz. Perhaps it just is.


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