It as been about a year since I resolved to write my autobiography. To date, I'm barely on the 5th chapter yet starting the 30th of my life;given each chapter represents a year . As I tap finger to key, it is incredible and rather confounding the depths that I unravel myself: the patterns I fall in to, the auto pilot mannerisms I create. Yet at 30, I am not pleased with the label "patterns". This merely reveals that what I am to learn under certain circumstances, still, has not been learned. I ask myself "what am pretending not to know"? "What am I afraid of"? The answer is infinite and definite. Is it possible to explain myself , the way of my life and the directions I will take in a single book? Might my perspective change and thus make my book rather obsolete when my taste buds change again? In defense, I am only me, here, now. once. I only know the depth that I do not know and that allows me greater responsiblity .
As I continue back to the future, inevitably, I will recall things I had forgotten and I will forget things I now know, but I am grateful to have the tenacity toencompass change and not fall into unreasoned rotine of life. Today's epiphany was that " we all follow suit". As much as I crave my home and life to have polished surfaces and clean edges, the rigidity is what I thrive on....
TBC,
jj
