It has been requested by my superiors at this fine establishment that I contribute something to do with a You and a Me, but recently I’ve had minimal social interaction and maximum days fixed to a leather couch because of a immobilising surgery on my ankle. So instead of complaining about my old sleaze ball boss or my pet peeves with idiots in society, I decided to address some old pals of mine. Me, Myself and I. And in thinking about what I could say about this on and off again relationship I have with them, I came to the conclusion that I was experiencing a phenomena that questioned just what I was doing with my fibreglass-casted self.
Two very chest tightening, anxiety inducing words – existential and crisis. They’ve come between the relationship I had with a version of me that seems to have escaped. In high school, I spent the majority of those four painful years daydreaming of the charming and fantastic life that I was going to have. It seems far fetched, but I thought I could pull the schematics of my future out of nowhere and live a grand existence because I was some sort of chosen one. “How ridiculous! Get back into the cupboard under the stairs, Harry!”
I agree with Uncle Vernon, to an extent.
I feel as though I have lost that girl who created a thousand worlds inside her head after being slipped with a hard dose of reality. There were so many ideas and dreams she came up with but by myself I can’t harness that train of thought that once was. I’m left now with the feeling that I’ve lost my compass in the middle of a dense forest, and I can see other hikers passing me by through the thick brush, but I’m still unmotivated to keep going. Where’s my ticket to metaphoric hot chocolate and s’mores?
Though in other instances of my life I’m grateful and very merry. And yes I have many years ahead of me, as we are so often told. Yet the yearning feeling for that past me who quietly had oodles of ambition is certainly hard to shake, not at all like a Polaroid picture. This to-and-thro is straining to say the least. How do I try to rekindle the flame of vast imagination I had with you, me? But how do we possibly bring these untouchable thoughts to fruition?
All I can think to say is, “it’s not you, it’s me”