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  • Writer's pictureMartina

“Light” Reading (heh)

I’m sitting out in my yard. It’s after 9pm, and the security light outside my neighbor’s back door keeps going off and on as if someone is disturbing the peace of that limited and immediate vicinity.

I look up and it’s a clear shot to the heavens; not a cloud in sight. I’m jealous of the people who can romanticize the night as if every star from here to eternity is within reach. I wish I had that luxury. Or maybe it’s a privilege. Whatever it is, I lack it. Where I am, there’s too much light pollution from the city to see any but a few pinpricks of starlight. Only the strongest galaxies survive around here.

Why am I writing this? Why am I sitting out in the night tapping away at my phone? What am I looking for?

Who knows.

I have always had an arduous and taxing relationship with myself; with my thoughts; with my emotions. Like my neighbor’s security light, they seem random and out of place and poorly timed— like I’m always reacting too early or too late and never right when it’s needed or even called for. Erratic.

I wish instead —and I have tried so many times in my life—to be like the night. Muted and unassuming, static and unaffected with only a few choice pinpricks of thought or feeling visible at any given moment. My problem has always been one of the heart. This reaching, needy, hungry thing has always wanted connection. Affection. Satisfaction. Like some sentimental black hole, it just devours whatever it can get, and it learned early that sometimes you get what you give.

But it never learned moderation. It never learned that sometimes what you get is far less than what you give. And it never really learned to be reserved

Enter imbalance and dissatisfaction and frustration. But, heart, you only had yourself to blame.

So why am I writing this? What does any of this have to do with anything?

Who knows.

But who said this has to mean anything anyways? I’m just a girl trying to understand herself and her place in this world and in the lives of people, and figuring that out has been a lifetime process so far. Arduous and taxing.

None of this makes sense. I’m not trying to make sense here for anyone, for once. Sometimes I just feel like there are things inside me to be described and discussed and explored and analyzed, but there’s no available medium for that necessarily. So here I am. Writing it out for the ethers and the airwaves. For the no ones reading this no one’s writing. An exercise in narcissism, probably, but it is what it is.

I’m no closer to whatever epiphany I’m looking for than when I started. Only one thing to do in that case, I guess:

Carry on,

Martina

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