Portmantle

This is a space for the “in-betweeners.” The self-contradictors. The indecisive deciders. The people who make up words when they can’t find the ones that fit just right. The people who exist in between the surface-level crust and the density of the core.

You see the good and the bad in everything, with objective eyes that can never be truly satisfied. Every paragraph is so good, until you overthink the words that need to be rewritten. So you never hit publish. And you never hit send. Because there must be an angle that you haven’t thought of just yet.

You fall in love until you don’t. You’re always just a little bit happy and a little bit sad and a little bit frustrated with yourself that you can’t seem to figure it out. You watch the people that you grew up with achieving their dreams, and you think “I could do that,” so you dream about it and you plan about it and maybe you even start. But you lose interest (or find a different interest) when you’re an inch away from the finish line, because you got too comfortable in the stage of creation, and now you don’t know who you’ll become after The Thing has been created. And that’s kinda scary.

You’re a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Half-read books. Unfinished tea. Hair tied half up, half down. Best of both worlds. Every hobby and career path and relationship and aesthetic sticks, until you find yourself stuck because you like everything but do you really love anything? You enjoy the journeys more than the destinations, but wish no one ever told you to do that because now you’re stuck on the perpetual journey, and you want to just… get there.

This is the space where I exist now. I’m trying to embrace it, but I think I’m also trying to leave.

So here’s to expanding comfort zones, following schedules, and finally, finally, hitting “publish.”