It’s time I stop writing because I think that someone might care. Sometimes you just have to write. I’ve come so far and feel like I am nowhere. But somehow there will always be tomorrow. I miss the days when I had hope for a bit more. I pined for it and, in some ways, had it but barely felt it in its wholeness at the time. I remember the last Christmas tree I bought and decorated. I remember the time when someone was away but yet offered the gesture of 12 days of Christmas…leaving gifts for each day but not the one gift I really needed – someone there. Really really there.
Relationships are so tricky. I look around and see so many broken. Or partially broken. And a select few so well fulfilled. Some that figured something out that I missed and have steadily built something whole, wonderful, and beautiful.
I look at men now and wonder how I got to a place where I feel so ill equipped to connect with any of them. When all my life all I’ve longed for is just to shower them with whole that I have as a capacity to love. I tried that though. It did not work. This is me as close as I’ve ever been to admitting defeat. I’m tired of being angry about it. I’m tired of being angry at those who would not be with me as I am. Who tried to change me. Who grew discontent and angry when I refused to – ah was incapable of – becoming what they visioned I should be. Of being too distrustful to follow their lead. Perhaps even – in some cases – to actually collaborate. I wish I’d understood how to find a collaborator. But perhaps I was always too flawed for that. Too intense. Too disinterested. Too much just into my own thing. I was just fine being me…
Doesn’t change my soul longed for it. And beats me up everyday because I missed out on that part. There is probably some ID, Ego, SuperEgo rif that can explain this but I’d rather not bother with all that. It would probably crush me. Suffice to say, through some ill twists of fate in my youth and some subsequently positioned mishaps I effective avoided that which I feared the most. Family. Yet my soul has still want for that. And everyone who knows me knows that – yet again, none of them can figure out how to reach me either. My fortress is strong and my sword so damn sharp. Even when I try, invite someone in… I sabotage in my own way. Crawl back in my shell. So different than the Ali that laid bare just a few years ago.
These days I can commonly be found snapping some documentation of what I find beautiful in my world. However, some of my most beautiful experiences were never captured in digital format – or even on film. Some of these are moments that seem so fantastic to me that I cannot confirm not deny that they happened. This is because, for lack of having burned them to permanent immortality, they only exist as some mixture of reality and the romance I held for soaking in every light, love, and sound that I could find.
Lately I feel highly compelled to draw them as they exist in my memory, before I become so old that they fade – like the once colorful prints from the days when film was the only medium of image capture. All the travels are trapped inside these internal landscapes that paint themselves in my dreams, creating mosaics of places and experiences. It is a sketch of the only thing that I believed I could fully succeed and ‘achieve’ at: freedom. Maybe that is what I can call them: “Sketches of Freedom”.
I’m not sure of my voice anymore. This is the first post of a continuation that signifies the change in voice that is unavoidable as perspectives shift along with the sands of time. Already so many micro perspectives have siphoned the writings of old. Now, along with the desire to capture history in handwritten picture, I feel like this voice has a certain degree of immortality to it… as if this voice can weather future iterations of self. Perhaps because the previous voice was mostly of deconstruction and this one is of construction. But who knows?
What I know is that I have used writing to find my way thus far and that will continue. For now, I see a period of retrospection coming. Some type of chronicle of the life of a young woman dubbed ‘wild child’ who made the choice to live free.
https://i0.wp.com/www.alilovejoy.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/shutterstock_326967050.jpg?fit=1000%2C667&ssl=16671000Ali Lovejoyhttps://www.alilovejoy.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/aliheader-1030x155.pngAli Lovejoy2017-09-18 03:57:422017-09-21 22:23:42"Sketches of Freedom" - memories are more vivid than photos
Another Christmas Alone
/0 Comments/in Finding the Future, Memories /by Ali LovejoyIt’s time I stop writing because I think that someone might care. Sometimes you just have to write. I’ve come so far and feel like I am nowhere. But somehow there will always be tomorrow. I miss the days when I had hope for a bit more. I pined for it and, in some ways, had it but barely felt it in its wholeness at the time. I remember the last Christmas tree I bought and decorated. I remember the time when someone was away but yet offered the gesture of 12 days of Christmas…leaving gifts for each day but not the one gift I really needed – someone there. Really really there.
Relationships are so tricky. I look around and see so many broken. Or partially broken. And a select few so well fulfilled. Some that figured something out that I missed and have steadily built something whole, wonderful, and beautiful.
I look at men now and wonder how I got to a place where I feel so ill equipped to connect with any of them. When all my life all I’ve longed for is just to shower them with whole that I have as a capacity to love. I tried that though. It did not work. This is me as close as I’ve ever been to admitting defeat. I’m tired of being angry about it. I’m tired of being angry at those who would not be with me as I am. Who tried to change me. Who grew discontent and angry when I refused to – ah was incapable of – becoming what they visioned I should be. Of being too distrustful to follow their lead. Perhaps even – in some cases – to actually collaborate. I wish I’d understood how to find a collaborator. But perhaps I was always too flawed for that. Too intense. Too disinterested. Too much just into my own thing. I was just fine being me…
Doesn’t change my soul longed for it. And beats me up everyday because I missed out on that part. There is probably some ID, Ego, SuperEgo rif that can explain this but I’d rather not bother with all that. It would probably crush me. Suffice to say, through some ill twists of fate in my youth and some subsequently positioned mishaps I effective avoided that which I feared the most. Family. Yet my soul has still want for that. And everyone who knows me knows that – yet again, none of them can figure out how to reach me either. My fortress is strong and my sword so damn sharp. Even when I try, invite someone in… I sabotage in my own way. Crawl back in my shell. So different than the Ali that laid bare just a few years ago.
Feeling nothing
/0 Comments/in Finding the Future /by Ali LovejoyThese days I can commonly be found snapping some documentation of what I find beautiful in my world. However, some of my most beautiful experiences were never captured in digital format – or even on film. Some of these are moments that seem so fantastic to me that I cannot confirm not deny that they happened. This is because, for lack of having burned them to permanent immortality, they only exist as some mixture of reality and the romance I held for soaking in every light, love, and sound that I could find.
Lately I feel highly compelled to draw them as they exist in my memory, before I become so old that they fade – like the once colorful prints from the days when film was the only medium of image capture. All the travels are trapped inside these internal landscapes that paint themselves in my dreams, creating mosaics of places and experiences. It is a sketch of the only thing that I believed I could fully succeed and ‘achieve’ at: freedom. Maybe that is what I can call them: “Sketches of Freedom”.
I’m not sure of my voice anymore. This is the first post of a continuation that signifies the change in voice that is unavoidable as perspectives shift along with the sands of time. Already so many micro perspectives have siphoned the writings of old. Now, along with the desire to capture history in handwritten picture, I feel like this voice has a certain degree of immortality to it… as if this voice can weather future iterations of self. Perhaps because the previous voice was mostly of deconstruction and this one is of construction. But who knows?
What I know is that I have used writing to find my way thus far and that will continue. For now, I see a period of retrospection coming. Some type of chronicle of the life of a young woman dubbed ‘wild child’ who made the choice to live free.