I have no gripes today, and to write from this lens is exercise. I'm practicing writing passionate words and thoughts without being driven by impulse. A catalyst that helps my writing is my grief. Grief heats up my rogue attitudes, invoking my independent principles, helping me respond aroused to the fervent circumstances in my life. Now, in some joy and comfort, I worry peace is boring. Peace is calming and I'm learning to write from this frame of reference too.
Can peace bring out the impassioned writer in me?
I'm in my passions daily, I counsel, I exercise, I create, I father, I flirt, I listen, I reach out, I analyze, I solve, I nurture, I play, and it brings out my "internal haters". I am learning how to modestly share my attainments. I feel pretentious when I share my success. I am selling out to my penitent roots. I am disenfranchising from my "toxic humility", "mistrust of pride", and "embarrassed purity". Turning the stigma and grinding meaning from these contradictions, will provide me the nutritious motivation to write about my successes.
Bliss in my life foils my sadness' rein. A sad, argumentative, and terrorizing tendency in me gets worried that joy will let us down again. Maybe joy will squander the 20 point lead, the 'Bad Ass, confident, know it all' created for me. Maybe that competitor, warrior, and victim in me will have to slop up the blood and gore scattered after peace lets our guard down. I picture the stoic part of me, doubting and infuriated that happiness is working its way back into my thoughts. I can feel the under dog in me seething, reminding how frail fails. My internal protector says, "We always get fucked Estrada, you leave me to pick up the pieces." Even my loner doesn't want to die alone.
The emotions that awaken when I feel injustice are rooted in my own memories of being unable to win, be valued, be loved, be pursued, be included, and being pleased. At the same time, these emotions of void become addictive, necessary for survival. I know more about my tendencies to look for ways that I am weak, disregarded, hated, rejected, excluded, and ignored. It is where I believe I function best. It is where I have known how to survive. I am addicted to an emotional cocktail, my version of the "good fight." When I find love, the competitor in me gets lonely, and reminds me to look for the intoxicating dazzle of deficiency. What a hater!
When I venture into bliss, my wounded psyche gets put away. The competitor in me can't accept acceptance, it needs resistance, it is a pulling dog that needs a harness and sled, not knowing anything but to pull and claw, ripping and gripping. The champion that I have always tried to be is uncomfortable with atrophy. My tenacious qualities, are looking at new roll dogs, love and harmony. The insecure competitor in me is no longer as manipulative. I rarely ask my joyful side to write. I won't let you down anger, rage, tenacity, and spite, Peace says, "I can ride the magic giant with passion too."
P.S. - The warrior in me hasn't died just taking turns and learning to share. I think we will likely all be back andhopefully wiser.
