The Sunlight Hurt My Eyes

Why is it we let the pettiest things get the best of us? Maybe it's just me, maybe it's a bigger epidemic, but I've come to the stark realization that, for whatever reason, I let the little things like the boy who breaks up with me, become the person (or issue) that gets to lift back the ugly grey curtain to expose all the decaying mess inside of me.

You're all cuddled up in a darkened corner where you’ve slept in till noon, enveloped in the drunken bliss of romance. Out of nowhere (maybe there's some internal alarm clock that boys come equipped with), he throws off the sheets, turns his back to you, and whips open the shade. In comes the burning ray of light, exposing your matted bedhead and bad morning breath to the world. You cover your eyes, reach around for something thick and meaningful to comfort you. Some blanket of passion, a hobby to distract you from realizing what's become of you… you look around desperately for some deeper meaning in your life to replace a love gone wrong…

You find nothing. An empty dusty room with a faint smell of mildew and last night's cheap whiskey.

I realized something big this week:
I cannot reach out for my happiness anymore. The snooze buttons that I relied on to bypass getting up and finding my own happiness no longer works. I don’t know why this particular boy, this recent house of cards is the one that crashed down with such an impact, but all of a sudden I’ve found myself surrounded in the leftover dust of important things I let pass me by. All of the things that would have taken time and effort and focus to build meaning and beauty… were left on the floor like scattered Legos. I was too busy steadying my hand at all the other frivolous card games.

I thought I knew what a quarter-life crisis was about. I also thought I had passed mine. Turns out, I merely glossed over it. And now I finally take about 20 steps back to look around at my 26 years of being, and wonder where I am. Where I'm headed. If I'm too lost to find my way out of this dark room. I look at myself in the mirror and I'm not really sure if I recognize who I am, what I stand for, what direction I should take.

Here I am, all exposed with nothing to fall back on. And I'm running out of cards to play with.

Why did it have to some silly break up to unwittingly pull back that dusty old curtain and shine an unforgiving light into my cluttered world?

So while I get adjusted to reality beaming in through my dirty window, the only choice I have now is to stand up slowly, dust off, gather up the pieces that mean something to me, and start sweeping out the flimsy fallen cards and cobwebs of complacency. Who knows, maybe if I really get going, I can turn those torn-up curtains into a fine Scarlett O’Hara-style masterpiece.