There have been many times when I've sabotaged myself, for reasons I can only equate to being afraid of the future and the possibility of failure along that road.
I would carry memories of past hurts as tattered mental luggage, busting at the seams with regrets, yet in some sort of sadistic melancholia, pine for the good old days, when in actuality, the good old days were pretty shitty.
But some memories, even the shitty ones, brought me some sort of pathetic comfort to an already forlorn outlook on life. Those memories I'd hoard like a worn out blanket - stinky, thinned out over time, but that illogical silly sentimental attachment through the back roads was the detour that rerouted me to a mental landscape when in the possibility for change was hope, not apprehension
I realize now just how may times fear has made me slam on the breaks of a life in perpetual motion. I'd fall into the ditch, exhausting myself from the climb back onto the asphalt. In the middle of a highway, rush hour, not being able to merge with traffic - false starts only to start again.
Car will not turn over. Battery corrosion in the terminals. The arc between now and then is not complete. The ignition. That fundamental switch that gets everything in motion again is my only hope.
Replace the dead battery, and resume my trajectory.
New directions, new hope, new me...
As we drive along this road called life, occasionally a gal will find herself a little lost. And when that happens, I guess she has to let go of the coulda, shoulda, woulda, buckle up and just keep going.
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