Unbecoming

A quarter of a century into this vast sequence of experiences, I can confidently say this is who I wanted to be. But if I am who I hoped I would be, why am I so unsettled? My insatiable heart sloshes like water in a cup never steady enough to be determined as half empty or half full.

There is the becoming: the growing into a pair of shoes I've spent years fantasizing of walking in. Then, one day, when the outline of my foot perfectly imprints the leather insole, my eyes shift from my shoes to my path.

I've spent my life getting dressed for the occasion but when I arrive I wonder if this party is really my style. "This is who I want to be, but is this where I want to go? But...if this isn't where I want to go then is this really who I want to be?" Suddenly, I'm deconstructing every thing that brought me here, staring at a blank page, wondering how to get the words out to begin a revised edition of my self-definition.

There is the unbecoming: the end of the day, slipping out of a well-worn pair of shoes with a suddenly noticeable smell. As I wiggle my toes and breathe, I wonder if it is always supposed to be this way.

Tomorrow. We'll try again tomorrow.