detachment

What is more sad, that fact that there's always a fight close to my departure or the fact that I do not seem to care? I wonder if this is observed by them, and causes a sort of disturbance.

I used to waver between never wanting children, to making detailed notes in my dairy of what not to do when it came to my own daughter. All in fear of becoming my mother. I saw, with trepidation, that parts of my temperament exactly mirrored hers. In ways of destruction, in lashing out at the people around us, in the almost savage enjoyment of shattering everything, and most of all, in our pride. Our unmovable, insurmountable, self-destructive pride, which towered over everything else, and bullied them into obeying its tyrannical will. And what's more, I took from my mother to view anything less with contempt, as weak and pathetic. Usually in the form of my father.

Now that I'm older, I see that I am not exactly like the one before me. That I am made of something more temperate. I came to this understanding with almost unbelieving relief, fearful at any moment that I should discover myself wrong, and back to the chains of blood that runs through my veins, and her veins, and the veins of all the strong, stubborn women before us, capable of great ambition and great ruin. Like the ocean, my mother was never one to be tranquil, she was magnificent in what she could dream of, magnificent in what she achieved, and magnificent in her rage.

But now that I have made my discovery, I could understand, even sympathize with my mother. And I know, (though I don't know how I know), that I could not have done this had I still believed I would turn out to be exactly like her. It is only after I was able to distinguish myself that I could attempt to unveil my prejudice.

This seems distubingly ironic, why is it that I cannot tear my dislike away when I thought myself exactly like the person I had such terrible dislike for? Was it because I saw them in myself that I hated her flaws so much? When I thought of all the anger I felt toward her rage, was it mingled with fear that I myself possessed such a quality?

And most of all, why is it that we can only understand and love a person when we detach her from ourselves? Are we, (am I), so incapable of loving and understanding my own person?

**

Riding beside the pacific

The first few times I went to the ocean, I thought, what's the big deal? This is what everyone talks about?

But the more I come here the more I know. And the more I'm away the more I understand.

**

pause, rewind, please

What the hell is wrong with me?

I can't believe I've never learned.

Why do I go after the people who won't give me what I want, instead of the people who will?

Why do I build up illusions, believe them, and crumple into an insecure mess when they shatter before my eyes?

Why am I so idiotic??????????????????

Why can't I take responsibility for what I do, and what I know I will do? Is there such a disconnection between the present me and the future one?

How can I allow myself to detach like that?