reflections on the hill i was late to climb over

I did not…I wasn’t even fucking close to…getting this one right away, this 50-thing…just as I did not get 40…or 30, or likely any decade before the afore mentioned decades.  I had great aspirations and goals for the turning of each; only to find that where I found myself at the changing-of-the-calendar-guard was not, in fact, remotely even hopefully close to where I actually wanted to be.

I would say, looking back behind myself, that each monumental decade-turning number held some force over me – perhaps as a reminder that I had lost the authenticity of myself somewhere between the non-zero years.  Lost I was, only later to realize, with each decade, that I had been screaming out to a self – for some painfully and mistake-making period of time – who could not hear me.

Each new decade in my life has gifted me with a massive life blowout; an ending or beginning of sorts.  With each, I returned to the warrior within.  Through each, I surfaced stronger on the other side whilst collecting the pieces and particles of self and soul again; combining them back into the woman they best knew how to be.

She writes her words and even still is amazed by the patterns threatening to define her existence.  She thinks that she probably starts slipping away from her core so slowly that she does not notice until she can no longer tolerate the place in which she finds herself; the impending blowup the necessary catharsis for her to take steps to re-re-re-re-(this is getting really old)-define herself.

Is it only the writer who is plagued with these thoughts over and over again until they must explode onto paper to help her understand her existence?  Where does all the endless pondering go if not given an outlet?  Surely it would take you down swiftly, without remorse, and with so much baggage that you may find yourself, at some point, unable to utter even one more spoken word.  Or breath.

I know you non-writing ponderers have some of the most poignant thoughts never shared.  Your real and raw is to be admired, and I’ll tell you why.  What you hold so deeply is sacred.  You know your thoughts are brilliant and that alone scares you.  I get it; trust me, I do.  But whaddya you say you just throw out a proverbial bone and see what happens?

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