Phoenix

Someone once told me that not everything I write has to be sad in some way. But if I only ever wrote about happy things would my words still save those people who feel like no one else hears them? Maybe.

Once upon a time there lived a girl who shit rainbows and sunshine all the damn time. She was so fucking happy that sunlight leaked from her eyes and joy fell from her mouth whenever she spoke. It was nothing short of the most immaculately positive words ever spoken.

No one liked her because they knew it was impossible to be that truly happy 100% of the time. It wasnt realistic. None of those bullshit ass fairytales are realistic in any way shape of form, thats why they are pretend. Want to know whats real? Debating the existence of yourself, becoming so painstakingly aware of your existence that it throws you for a moment. You stop and you think “holy shit I’m here in this moment.” I never knew how to explain it, the feeling of being suddenly aware of your own existence. I wonder, is there a word for that? For that exact moment when your hands dont feel like your hands anymore and the moment takes you by such surprise you cant live in it long enough to be able to explain it to another person.

That is how I feel. Stuck in a never ending loop of realizing I am here. And realizing that here is not where I truly want to be. Now thats not to say that I dont want to exist or that I dont enjoy where I am. I have just realized that I am really not a person I like.

I live in fear, and I make decisions that I hope my significant other approves of and that’s never been me. I don’t know how to ask for space, and I don’t know how to respect my emotions. I keep telling him that I am just dissastisfied, but what I dont tell him is that I pretty much hate myself. I hate the decisions I make, I hate my lack of forward momentum. I don’t know how to inspire myself. I don’t know how to move through the damning indifference. I am so fucking uncomfortable in being comfortable that its ripping me to shreds. I dont write anymore because the honesty in the situation is so fucking scary that I am unable to breathe sometimes. I like to blame it on different things…old relationships, grandpa dying, but in reality I just gave up on myself. I gave up on lighting the fire after it went out. I just sit in my cold dark existence pissed off that the universe wont give me flames.

I am the flame.

I am the kindling

I am the fuel that brings the fire to life.

I just forget that all the time.

He told me that I am complicating it, and I for fucking sure know that I am, but I cant figure out how to stop the cycle. What decisions do I have to start making to bring forth that piece of me? What do I need to say to my reflection in the mirror when I start my day? What habits do I need to create? What space do I need to carve out?

What the fuck do I even want?

Do I want to be a writer? Do I want to be a creative anymore? Or is it something that I think I should be because it was my identity for so long and by not becoming it I am somehow letting down all the people that have known me for years?

My sisters write, and sometimes I get jealous that it hasnt been ruined for them yet. and other times I am thankful that the spotlight to create something isnt on me anymore.

I told my grandpa I would be something extraordinary, and sometimes I don’t think I have it in me. Sometimes I think I am just this boring ass human who is destined to work harrowing retail jobs that suck the life out of me. And then I get so fucking mad at myself for even entertaining that idea. Because I am Kierstin fucking Palcek, and my mom didnt raise me to be ordinary. That word never existed in my dictionary, because it was never an option.

But here I am, ordinary as fuck, not doing anything about it but complaining in this stupid ass post.

fuck.

Ha thought I was going to end it there, but nah man I guess I’ve opened the dam so here it all is….

I didnt want to leave starbucks, but I knew I wanted something different and the job had gotten too much and I just felt like I was freefalling into the darkness that felt alluring and familiar. So I left, and I fucking hate it. I left my comfort zone, and here I am a new fish in this giant fishbowl with these people I dont know doing something that I dont even like. Ha I’m selling fucking jeans. I SELL FUCKING JEANS.

Lol I don’t even know where to start with that other than I wanted out of the confines of comfort so bad that I have resorted to selling jeans. I felt needed, important, and depended on at starbucks and here I just feel like Katelyn is plotting her takeover. Cause I apparently cant do anything right and she just loves to point it out over and over and over.

I want to cry at work every fucking day. Because I hate it that much. It’s not what I want to do forever but its what I am stuck with for now.

So that brings me to the decisions that need to come from here.

I need to get my head out of my ass, I need to commit to writing every night even if its rant after rant and I need to become disciplined and I need to separate myself from whatever chris is doing and I need to stop feeling so fucking bad for doing things I want to do.

I am my own person, I make my own choices. I do not need to be here all the time, I can go out with friends and do things with other people. I can make time for just myself, and I can have alone time without needing to shower.

I know that I am creative, beautiful, powerful, and that I am more than the box I keep putting myself in.

You will feel the music again, you will take one of those sparks and burn the whole fucking place down.

Get it back, love yourself, free yourself from the shackles youve put on your own wrists.

and then, like a phoenix, rise from the fucking ashes.