I’m tired of being labeled. Tomorrow that’ll change. Tomorrow I’ll be all about defining myself again, on the lookout for stereotypes and categories. Last week, Zach told me my boots were very liberal. How can boots be liberal? They’re just canvas, elastic, and rubber. They’re also bright, spanking red.
I’m tired of defining myself. I feel pushed around. Because of how I’ve defined myself I am now locked into certain paths. I can’t just pick up and go to France to learn to be an acrobat. Architects don’t do that. Writers don’t do that. Writers write. Architects architect. Americans verb everything.
I don’t want to abhor the south anymore, just because it doesn’t have seasons. I want to be unapologetically warm even in February.
I don’t want to have this ego trip. I pat myself on the back with every puddle I splash through. Aren’t I smart – I’ve got my wellies on. I don’t have to step gingerly, hop over, and suffer cold, wet feet like all you silly folks in your loafers and heels. Why do I have to feel this way? Why is everything a statement?
Welcome to the flip side. Aversion. Attachment. It’s all the same thing. Does a wheel have an upside and a downside?
I want to say these things don’t bother me. Wouldn’t it be nice to stop looking for labels and to also not care how they are applied? Wouldn’t it be nice to actually feel like I honestly could do anything I felt like tomorrow? As if I were, in fact, free? Not simply to know it intellectually, but to feel it deep down inside. What would it be like if I didn’t have to congratulate or chastise myself?