Callouses grow over the heart by degrees. I wonder, lately, where the line lies between letting go and fossilizing. If I shrink my sphere down to what I can handle, there are going to be things--and people--left outside it. Isn't that the point? The point was to keep things--and people--manageable, so that what I take on, I can do. I acknowledge my limitations. I hate them. I hate myself for them. I recognize the hatred, the irrationality; I remind myself of what I tell others in my position. Good. Keep the center.
But people aren't things.
How many stories can I insert myself into as a character? What gives me the right? How much time can I spend as the eternal supporting character-- But I'm not, am I. My impulse is to swoop in and save the day. What I'm doing--what I'm trying to do is make myself the hero of other people's stories. You know, I hadn't thought about it like that.
No wonder it isn't working.
There's only one story I have the ability to be the protagonist of. By stepping in as the change-maker, I make people peripheral in their own lives. The passive. The ones in need of saving, of re-making. I tell them again and again that they have strength they don't know about, but do I act like they do? Do I trust them with their own lives?
I'm growing callouses, but the abrasions come from the hostile nature of environments--of stories--in which I do not belong. One forgets, sometimes. I forget. I have worlds I'm neglecting. Can I breathe yet?
I'm coming back.
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