Disposable Goods

I have been really lost, for a really, really long time.

I have drifted along, letting myself float along with the ebb and flow of days, weeks, months, and now I am encroaching on 'years.'

Today it occurred to me that, in my mind, I am a disposable good.  I am that lost, to myself, that I am no better, no more worthy of a place than a paper plate- or a plastic cup.  I am not pottery.  I am not stained glass or a Tiffany lamp.  I have no vaulted ceilings of cathedrals nor graceful arcs of mosques.  I am neither the great American novel nor Virginia Woolf.

No, I think of myself as the day-old newspaper; the one you would use to wrap up a vase or some other delicate, precious good.  I am bubble wrap; a Starbucks cardboard cup- carelessly discarded and careless about it.

That is how very lost I have been for a very long time.  I came to this realization only today as I stared out the kitchen window onto the frostbitten lot.  There, in the trees, nests, bones, and rocks, is permanency.  There in nature exists what I want to be- steady and present.  Cold, warm, all the opposites all the time; dualistic; dramatic; present.

Instead I constantly throw myself away- and I expect others to throw me away.  I expect my own disposal.

The nature of the beast which prowls through my mind, my heart, my soul, is mean.  The nature of the beast has an honesty that reeks of brutality, meanness, and self-loathing.

Ah the beast of disposable goods.

xoxo, Friends.