I was just following the crowd. Everyone else was doing it. No one was happy with what is. There’s always something to wish to be different. If he was more emotionally responsible. If she would just keep up with my pace. If I had more money, more time, more love. Decades spent chasing tails. My own tail somehow held a promise of completion. Like the snake that devours itself. His tail too but it was a different kind of completion. Like stuffing a turkey and giving thanks for a full belly. Like taking in his seed and producing a human. Like opening the doors to my broken inner children and feeding them cake. But the turkey just put me to sleep and the baby brought an onslaught of needs to fill and the inner children ate too much cake and threw up on my organs.
I can’t seek my own wholeness through another. I can’t keep giving my torch to this parade of fools in hopes that they will light my way home. They have their own balls to juggle and throwing mine at them only distracts them from their game. There’s a fire in my belly where I can burn my own distaste and ignite my own dance. And it’s alright if I drop one here and there, or spin another backwards because I am my own choreographer and each step is created in the moment with whatever inspiration is present. There is no wrong way and no one can judge my performance unless I give them the number cards. Besides, I’m my own worst critic anyways.