Sunday, February 12, 2017

hope is that thing with feathers...

For as far as I can remember, the impulse has been to leave, to leave, to save what's left of my soul. Now, a small flicker of dull hope has appeared, and the impulse has become a little dampened. There's a tiny voice that keeps whispering, stay, don't you want to know what could be, what you can help wrought?  But I've had this small hope before, and it got thrown to the ground, shattered to pieces, trampled upon, and turned to dust under the feet of the more grasping, the more ambitious.

Self-preservation taught me to divert attention to myself by drawing attention to my flaws, by being just reticent enough, stubborn enough, and uncooperative enough that their eyes passed over me when considering people to work with. And for the past three or four years, it had gone well. While a small part of me resented not being recognized for what I could do, what I could be, and what I could give, the larger part of me was glad not to be seen, not to be unwillingly, unwittingly used to serve their schemes.

These days, the impulse mostly, is still to leave. But these days, the small flickering hope seems like ribbon, tethering me in place, because as much as I am embarrassed to admit, I'm curious where the story will go, and I want to know what role I will play.