It is true that I complain - I complain a lot. I want to look at it and
stop it at once. But, perhaps it is a habit and habits are harder to kick
than to acquire. I still have not licked my sugar habit. Nor a majority
of low self-esteem.
Perhaps it will be the best for me to be constantly alone. While I can
add somewhat to people's gardens, my complaints will blight it all and
take so much away. I will forever create blighted gardens - greenery with
splotches of black or read - spots of yellow - until I become the person
I am meant to be. What is so hard to realize - what I have been blind
to - is that the sole factor - the one person who limits me - is myself.
My mother, her words, are just a ghost. I can watch people, in their frustrations,
constantly jump up and down - for they see that I have come so far, that
I am towards the end of my path - but now I just sit there, immobile,
because I imagine and re-imagine the ghosts of my past. Of not my past
but my imagined, my re-worked past. Of how I have taken every negative,
blowing air into each, as if they were balloons and set them free. Of
course, they were negatively charged, so the balloons sank about me, the
lone leftover amidst the fallen balloons, the million balloons on the
floor, after the party.
© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth