Hello. My name is Barby. I can’t dance to save my life. This has absolutely nothing to do with what’s below.
On this not-so-busy Wednesday morning (hurray self, do not stress), I find myself sifting through Gray’s Anatomy Season 5 songs while contemplating on life, as I usually do. It’s nearly a year and a half since I graduated, and if a boring night catches me at some future time I will tell you the story of how my partner and I survived a slow-moving, hilarious, tear-jerking, transportationally-shortchanged 1.5 year initiation into becoming full-fledged interior designers.
The aftermath of watching too many beautiful dances (in the wee hours of the morning) is the wiping out of your brain, especially the region that knows who you are. After all, dance carries with it thoughts, ideas, and concepts that sometimes songs and words just can’t. Or it could be that a beautiful dance can cause things buried deep inside to surface. It can make nostalgia and unidentifiable emotions well-up, spread out like the messy contents of a post-calamity house, waiting to be sorted.
A fine mess it reflects of the chaos inside my head, which is evident in my room where A Great Mess has invaded my desk, and has pretty much become the theme of my bedroom. The only spot of clarity would be the bookcase. Everything else is a pile of unfinished business. One thing hermit crabs and I share is the tendency use a space or a bag, then vacate it while leaving some bit of mess behind while moving on to another space or bag. Today, there aren’t any spaces left to cram shit into. When I look at this… whatever it is, its just as hard to figure out the person I’ve become.
The connection I’ve once had with all of these things is lost.
Having renovated our house twice (or thrice), remembering bedrooms past and comparing them to this one brings about a remembrance of the person I used to be:
The inventor, imaginative child who’d build machines out of bikes, leaves and stones.
The child who once loved to dance without a care in the world.
The girl who’d help classmates with artsy stuff… to feel useful, needed and accepted.
The girl who played volleyball, and once was part of a six-arm six-legged team.
The girl who drew worlds, people, and things, because it was her language at the time.
The girl who carried around a small diary, filling it with anger, quotes, trivial stuff, and stories of travel.
The passionately eager designer who tacked pictures on a board (we had no Pinterest then), or the person with so much architectural drafting supplies and old college works (I kept them all, who knows why) enough to build a mini-museum of the life of an interior design student.
There’s one memory that aches most: being the girl who looked forward to life. I don’t remember the last time I looked forward to waking up, and this bothers me a lot. I had a creative itch, and I used to scratch that a lot (and happily). There was nothing like the pleasure of making the worlds in my head become a bit more real. Today, you’d have to require me to draw.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m 70% sad, but 30% happy about that. The silver lining in being lost is the chance to find yourself again. I’m throwing away the burden of being who I thought I was, or whom I thought should be. Maybe that’s the gift of this season: after life comes crashing down on the person you’ve become, you have the opportunity to build who you are from scratch. It’s a blank page for a new story to take place.
A story, whether good or bad (often both), is always something to look forward to.