Feels like I’m forgetting something…

I haven’t been feeling very creative lately. I haven’t felt like I can communicate clearly, or like I can zip into an inbox confidently, or like I can express myself in a way that feels natural, or good.

I haven’t felt like I’ve been living up to the high standards I set for myself. I haven’t felt like I’ve been showing up for people the way I want to, or like I’ve been meeting people’s expectations of me, or like I’ve been giving enough of myself.

I feel like I’m forgetting something. Like I’m in a perpetual state of ‘I feel like I’m forgetting something.’

Although it’s not entirely unfamiliar, this is a new and sudden feeling that seems to be the result of many things culminating. Big complicated astrology, important lofty goals, the weight of self-imposed responsibilities, the lingering effects of partially-healed perfectionism and people-pleasing tendencies, acute awareness of anxious thought patterns, heavy-handed emotions, the ongoing impact of grief, and a double dose of doubt.

Is there something I’m forgetting? And if there is, will people forgive me for it? Will I forgive myself?

If I drop the ball on something, if I totally fuck it up, or if I fail miserably, will I survive?

Why does failure feel like death? Why does vulnerability feel like being pulled apart? Why does responsibility feel like being crushed? 

And why does slowing down feel next-to impossible?

I know it’s not totally impossible, though.

If I close my eyes and sit in stillness, I can feel my insides buzzing — vibrating on high. I can feel my bones aching, first sharp and then dull. I can feel my stomach turning, churning, swirling.

But if I concentrate on my breath —breathe in and out, slowly through my nose — I can almost see it. The chaos slows down just enough to reveal a brilliant, swirling universe. A universe made of dark blues, purples hues, and vibrant greens. A universe peppered with the sparkle of a million tiny stars and a million tiny worlds, filled with a million tiny souls. 

And as I observe this little universe, I can see it turning — spiraling into itself. Shrinking or expanding, I don’t really know. I can see the ache of every dying star and every post-apocalyptic world. The endings that were all inevitable. But I can also see the buzz of everything that’s still living, still pressing forward, still trying to be all that it can.

I can see the beauty, the pain and the wonder of it all, and looking at it soothes me. It lulls me into a hypnotic state of self-inspired bliss. Bliss that smells like pink, that feels like sunset, and that looks like heat. And for a moment, I can revel in the luxury of feeling like me.