Say It to Me Now

I think there's a real truth in journaling and spilling all of your feelings on to a page; not only is it highly cathartic, but you can come back months later (or even simply days later) and roll your eyes at yourself. I suppose blogging is a sort of journal for myself except for the part where it isn't entirely private. Which is, I'm finding, a bit unsettling. Ever feel pulled in too many directions? I find that juggling rarely works. I don't ever drop the ball, mind you, I just manage to throw it at the nearest person and then subsequently duck and cover, hoping there won't be too much backlash. It's those little seemingly insignificant doubts that become significant. Those little unseemly creatures that climb in to the back of your skull and fester there for a while. That begin to draw out other doubts, feeding on insecurities, on misgivings, adding fuel to the industrious fire. Like rabid pack hunters, they will chase down each hope until they are cornered ala Jack London style, picking off each new one until all of the old ones themselves abandon reason. Doubts that have no reason or logic, doubts that are based within fogginess and have a certain indefinable quality. It's the indefinable part that makes doubt so powerful--you can't quite ever put your finger on what it is.

"I'm scratching at the surface now

And I'm trying hard to work it out

So much has gone misunderstood

This mystery only leads to doubt."

In any case, sometimes I recognize the doubts for what they truly are and still invest my time in them, feeding the caged beast. It's this highly illogical bit that really throws me. It's been said that insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over with a different expectation of result. Well, that's the way it is with me and doubt. It's almost as if the acknowledgement of those said doubts doesn't serve to dissipate them, rather it seems to enlarge them and solidify their hold. I've been told that there's no reason to cling to doubt, to shame, to fear. That there's always hope. Hope, that's the dangerous word. Hope, defined as "a feeling of expectation and desire for a thing to happen" doesn't really fit into my recollection of the work; instead, I seem to associate hope with a far more cosmic meaning. As if hope negates these doubts, these misgivings, this surrender to apparent taboo feeling. 

"And I didn't understand

When you reached out to take my hand

And if you have something to say

You better say it to me now."

Ever feel like you've had the same expectation, theory, ideology pounded into your head for so long that you think you might be going slightly mad in your want to reconcile it with your own experiences? For me, it's this idea of trying to realize what's up and what's down, the up you told me or the down you showed me? In any case, the problem here is the fact that some things will never be truly reconciled. And maybe that's sacrilegious. Maybe it's blasphemous. I feel like I'm right on the edge of discovering something truly defining, but it seems to be just out of my grasp. In any case, I'll be tackling doubts by the dozens and be prepared to utterly lose it when said epiphany happens to break over me like a tsunami on dry rock. 

"Cause this is what you've waited for

Your chance to even up the score

And as these shadows fall on me now

I will somehow."

"Cause I'm picking up a message Lord

And I'm closer than I've ever been before."

"So if you have something to say

You better say it to me now.

Say it to me now

Say it to me now

Say it to me now."

--Glen Hansard, Say It to Me Now

And in the darkness when you find this I'll be far to sea,

M