Maggie sits, waiting for her name to be called,
bashfully plucking away at the dirt living dormant underneath her finger nails.
The lobby is full. Beautiful people. Calm people. Not Maggie people.
Sling over cross shoulder bags and attaché cases rest in open seats beside the other women while she clumsily, kicks her farmers market bag, deeper into the shadows, clumsily strewn underneath her seat.
"Rather be kicking rocks, in traffic, blindfolded" she muses silently to herself.
Now that she's started over, she too is prepared to be dismissed,
Ok with no longer wanting something, because NO's have come along all too often.
Knowing full well that she is the sleepy, left of center wild card.
Walking away was not something she had planned ahead for.
And creating is what she knows,
Her mind trails off,
"What am I even doing here"
A hike is how she'd rather start her day.
Twitching unsettled around in her seat. Feeling more and more and comfortable. She looks to the door, and considers briefly bolting. But she does not, she pulls out her book. Sustainability in Action and opens to the page she has read 100 times before.
She's been gone along time. So long now, it seems inconceivable that there may be a place for her to come back to. Just getting ready today was difficult enough. She didn't want to leave. It should be known that this is a practice. A practice in getting ready, being prepared, telling of her story. She looks to the well worn heel of her loafers. Feeling already hot, tired, stifled. The all too familiar sensation of what this failure feels like.
Eyeing the sign in the corner of the room,
Framed, Clean, Artistically Pretty.
"Pardon our mess, We are under construction"
She thinks of her own
Work in Progress-ness -expression,
A reflection of herself,
Torn, stained, ripped patched and ratty-
How she imagines others view her,
Unaware nobody else is even paying attention.
She laughs a little to herself, recognizing the irony.
Wished she could be as forthright and accepting of her own,
Fucked Up id Ness.
Some days are harder then others. Hard to get started. Hard to focus. A challenge to complete a task. Oddly this is one of them. She's making strides. Outward clunky motion. She sees progress. A bit of a sliding scale really. So so tired still.
Not doubled over today in depression, but certainly echoing again,
"What am I doing here?"
At some point while growing up, she lost track of all the moves, and began to acquire boxes. She kept them, broken down, tucked away, in her closet, under her bed, resting behind her nightstand, pressed snuggly against the wall. Because she knew eventually, just around the corner, as fate would have it...There will be, another move. These boxes she holds onto they don't take up too much space. Best to be prepared.
It hasn't been easy. Her home life, unsettled. She's just in between surrender and acceptance. Never officially feeling at home in the apartment she shares with Troy. They moved in together nearly three years ago, but the art leaning wistfully at the base boards on the floor, speaks volumes of discomfort, otherwise. How many configurations, can one home have? Not enough to keep her peaceful. And Troy just sits there, feet up, headphones on, letting the dog piss in the corner, feigning ignorance whilst asking,
"Does the dog even need to go out now?"
Those boxes,
Silent whispers
Tempting her,
Maybe now is the time to
Let them go.
Or pack them full.
Use them.
Move them from room to room?
The new Crossfit.
Feng Shui Fit.
Get into it.
Theres a difference between, hoarding, consumerism, and value.
Maggie knows this. Deep in her neurons. She doesn't want stuff,
And yet all her life she's been riddled with it.
While she appreciates nostalgia & skews towards sentimentality,
She understands, she doesn't need anything.
And longs to feel the weightlessness of what free feels like.
Maggie wouldn't at all classify herself as a hoarder,
But she knows for certain, she doesn't want to acquire,
Any more stuff.
Troy doesn't know this about her. He just sees the surfaces, being piled higher and higher of things she refuses to let go of. Always more, more, more. Their apartment packed to the brim; old stuff, broken stuff, used stuff, other peoples stuff, stuff that used to be something else stuff.
He complaines, she snaps back,
"Well maybe if you stopped buying so much Cool Whip..."
And they are off again to the races.
She is irritated, in an instant, for so many reasons.
Most of them stupid.
He's not supposed to be having sugar.
Maybe if she could let things go.
And he could take just a little bit of initiative.
They may actually be the perfect pair.
Regardless, they are at an impasse.
So she sings to him her soul calming song,
"Nobody likes you, nobody like you..."
This is not her story alone.
It is a story of many.
Varied yet familiar.
She's tries to fit in.
But why bother.
The true test of a life is not simply making it work.
But work at making something.
Creating something.
She'd rather be home, digging in the dirt.
But how does she get paid for that?
Echoes of uncertainty, as she hears her name called.
She rises up,
Stepping forward,
Opening the door of who knows,
And starting over.
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