I love painkillers. Not in the way that I require them to function, but in the way that when I need them, there they are in the shiny plastic bubbles, just waiting to be popped and digested so they can spread their heavenly goodness. So here I am on day four of a six day dancing binge. My knee isn't swollen, it just sorta feels "cloudy." Nothing two Alieve and eight solid hours won't fix. Good Lord though. A normal week should involve excersise at least five times a week, right? I'm only taking Thursday off for the next two weeks. After that I have my Wednesday nights free, too.
Part of the frustration right now is that work set me back a week by keeping me on the training schedule. Studying has been hard and I find myself too weak-spirited to make time. I need my extra two hours in the afternoon to have time to set aside everything and focus. I miss my 6-2:30 schedule so much. I have five bazillion plans that overlap each other and getting off of work at 4:30 is like hitting the ground running. It's like I'm not even getting a break to do laundry and I've had my sheets off my bed for four days now and still with no success of getting them clean. Bugh.
I was talking with Michaela Sunday evening and started talking about plans that a friend has that I am decidedly jealous of. I had no idea until I started admitting it out loud. I was horrified when I started tearing up in front of her. I had no idea I was actually at that point in my life. It's weird how much pressure I feel to be a success to my parents, to be a success with my finances, with myself that I forgot that there were things in my life that mattered so much to me at one point, I've forgotten. I guess all the endorphins are clouding me from being tender to the things that still matter in my life. It's almost like a self-medicating, dancing to cover up the fact that I still have dreams that aren't resolved that I used to keep me up until the wee hours, planning.
Don't get me wrong. I love so much of my life. I wouldn't give up 75% of it. However, those sneaky dreams from jr high (possibly a backlash from the success of Friday night's art show) and from after "the Matrix" still creep their way in and remind me I'm not so one dimensional. Drive is such a strange concept that being caught up in it is almost like being a frog and the water's getting warmer, but you only realize it once you're legs are as good as dinner.
Otis knew how I feel. He had dreams to remeber.
I remember a time when my head was so full. Not that it's empty now. I just had too many thoughts, too many webs that spun into sub-webs, that spun into smaller webs than that. I had a stream of consciousness that from jr high through high school I couldn't control. Maybe that was adolescence. Maybe it was puberty. Maybe it was creative mania. I don't know if it's gone, because I can remember a lot of what it's like, and I can remember what a lot of it consisted of. I worry at times that the creative mania that spurred on my seasons will be the last ones. Like, what if my art goes away again, but this time it doesn't come back? What if the last phase of writing in my life is over? I guess that's why I keep seeking out ways to dance, ways to improve and ways to be creative with it as opposed to fitting a piece of history (which is completely noble)...
There's got to be something here to balance how I feel about my exsistance, too.
Woo, is this too deep? Cause I feel like I'm up to my elbows.