I like to write when I'm exhausted. My walls are down, the masks are in bed, and I am free, if by no other cause than a complete lack of energy, to be entirely honest. When I'm rested my head gets in the way of my heart, if you know what I mean.
So hmm... I'm no longer with Nicholas. Not gonna lie, it's a roller coaster ride. But the weird thing is I'm not taking it as if I'm not beautiful or good enough. I mean, I worry about whether or not I did something wrong or he suddenly saw something he couldn't stand, but really, that's not my biggest fear, either. My biggest fear is not having him as a friend. I fear that we won't be able to continue on where we were before. I realize that it won't be the same, but something close to it...like almost the same would be good.
I worked at the well tonight. My hope in agreeing to do so was that it would distract me from my wounded heart. For the most part, it did just that. However, since Nicholas and I spend lots of time there, you can imagine that there were challenging moments. After Sal and I were done shutting everything down for the night we stayed and chatted with a few patrons. I was reading the staff journal (to myself) and there was a question that asked, "what is your favorite memory at the well?"
If I were to respond, I may say something like this,
"Several years ago, before I left for college, before I became 'Asher', the Well was alive with conversation and curiosity. The sheer diversity and quirkiness of both the staff and Wellers provided an endless source for both deep conversations and relationships. It was not unheard of, back then, for the staff at the time to kick Aza, Amanda, myself and many others, out so they could head to bed. And on the cool summer nights we would sit in the parking lot talking and listening, utterly oblivious to the passing time until someone would notice a lightening in the night sky's blue. Lighter and lighter and then there was purple haze, and pink, and then orange... and the sun would rise. In a slothful panic we would remember our jobs, our meetings, our classes, say 'goodnight' and part ways, hoping for two, maybe three hours of sleep before the demands of life began again.
We were blissfully unaware, in so many ways, of how unusual our ritual was. No one had yet told us how dysfunctional we all were, or if they had, we had failed to listen. We knew little of boundaries and balance and even self-love, but we had something that I can say I truly miss: a belief, naive as it may have been, that we could change the world, that we had it within our hearts, minds, and spirits to change the world for the better.
Now, five and a half years later, the dreams of a better world, of infinite possibilities, are buried beneath wounds, and failed attempts and educated theories. I can no longer look at a situation and think, "I can fix this! This I can change!" Instead, my degree-holding mind reminds me that failure is emanate, that the world can't really be fixed with belief and hope and a new program. My wounded heart tells me that I cannot succeed because I have failed and because I am too imperfect for anyone to take seriously. My friends, too, dream a little less. And if they have not yet stopped dreaming, they have spoken less and less of it, for our naive dreams were met with cynicism and doubt, and the fear of foolishness lingers just below the surface.
My favorite memory of the Well of the past is also my prayer and hope for the Well of the future: That we may begin to dream again, and that we would dream dreams that are larger than life and believe that we, even in our imperfections and failed attempts, our strong and able to take a stand for something and change the world around us in ways that others cannot fathom. May we begin to remember the beauty and necessity of conversations and relationships so good that they land us sitting on pavement at 5 in the morning, watching the sun wake from its slumber. May we never forget that it is the dreamers that the world depends upon to deliver us from our fatal prison of cynicism."
