Orpheus and Denethor

To be able to let go of grief - my wish. On contemplating my attachments to the earthly, I suddenly took notice of the elephant in the room, so to say. Large, gray, ominous, I'm almost surprised there's any room left for other parts of me to carry out oblivious existences. The thing is, I have to choose it, everyday - I have to choose to be attached to sadness, like horses who choose the burning barn over a frightening walk outside. I feel frustrated and sick, lethargic, listless, and apathetic, all in some effort to turn away from the responsibility before me - just leave it alone, just allow yourself to walk away from old states of being, don't look back to give it new strength.

Ugh. I don't like being mad, but letting it out usually helps. I feel ashamed by the presence of such emotions, and therefore tend to want to conceal them far away, to be dealt with later. Maybe there's some dread fascination in that, some delight in harboring secrets. In the end, who am I hiding them from, really? The puffs of freedom felt at releasing and relinquishing stubborn emotions feel too clearly like little steps in the right direction for me to ignore the importance of not making myself into a secret stash of rotten feelings.

Inhale, exhale. I'm silly often, but I didn't come here to flaunt my innate completeness. I came here to grow.