Peas n' Carrots

I like peas. I don't like cooked carrots. Somehow, together, however, I find them rather tasty. Maybe it is just my tacit tribute to Forrest Gump or my inability to reject anything that encompasses a cool contrast of colors or textures. Or maybe I am just a glutton and I will eat anything.

Or maybe it's all true.

What is definitely true is that I am rambling. Incessantly. Insipidly. Badly.

The cyberspace equivalent of babbling.

Why?

I am stalling. Also, badly.

There is something I want to write about, but I am not quite sure how to do it. I need to sort out my shaken-snow globe of feelings, thoughts, and present (though no longer overwhelming) free floating anxiety. Writing seems to be the only way. I haven't been able to coherently converse about the matter. I haven't been able to coherently think about the matter. And, currently, I have a strong feeling that coherent narrative on the matter is just not forthcoming.

This is new for me.

Usually I am overwhelmed by what I feel one way or the other. Sadness, malaise, elation, grumpiness, joy - in my life to this point, I feel these feelings (I feel all of my feelings) in massive waves. I get drenched. I get knocked down. It often leaves me struggling for air. But I can identify them.

Even if it is because the hits just keep on comin' - it is precisely that: they keep on coming at me. So even in that split-second, I have time to "see" them. To face them squarely in the eye, before my inevitable surrender and subsequent violent pull out into the rip tide.

But now it is different. The feelings don't come at me anymore. I am not bracing myself. Forever locked in a pugilistic stance. I can't even shadow box with them anymore because they aren't shadows. The feelings are all... internal. I can't see them anymore. I know they are there. But I can't see them.

And so, apparently, in the warm, dark incubator that is my internal self, my feelings have now become (seemingly) inextricably combined with my thoughts, and my memories, and my instincts, and my hopes, and my fears, and my concerns.

Complete inner entropy - but its' residual effect is curious confusion rather than abject misery.

This is really new.

I think that maybe, just maybe, nearly a biennial away from thirty, I may actually be starting to discover what it is like to have a "self."

A self that is flawed, imperfect, difficult, deranged, delusional, disquieting, and yet the most entrancing thing I have never seen - because it is mine. It is me.

It bewilders me. But I know it is there.

So where has this all come from?

More stalling.

Now that I am able to see my own hand in front of my face (never was able to take much time to look at my hands when readying for the waves or sparring with the shadows), situations in life which used to just happen to me - carried off my own internal rip-tide - are now mine to steer and control. To be wise with.

To try to be wise with.

And, damn, if that isn't hard.

My head and my heart have spent so many years working in alternating shifts that they are having a hard time riding the tandem bike they have now been given.

The two are forever debating - in a gentlemanly way of course - back and forth - about who gets to ride in front, and thus who gets to steer.

They both make good points. Though I am not entirely sure that each really knows what it is talking about.

They've never really spoken before. Only a passing nod "hello" as each replaced the other at the end of its shift on the line. This discourse thing is new.

My head is attempting to speak the King's English - though its diction is always a little unpredictable. I am pretty sure my Heart is speaking some sort of pidgin' Pig Latin (maybe with a Meposian accent).

Apparently, my efforts so far have succeeded in getting these parties together (a victory unto itself), but the honest broker got so caught up in that, that she forgot to invite an interpreter along.

Oh dear.

And so, I am left to ruminate the finer points of fiber rich vegetables, waiting for my internal Odd Couple to agree.