It’s been nearly a month since I’ve posted anything here, and I want to write something today because I am bursting with excitement. In less than three hours, I’ll be attending a concert. It will take place online, on a site called Moment House. It’s a way to participate in the magic of live singing and dancing without the risk of exposure in a pandemic. It is being hosted by one of my favorite artists, Aurora.

I struggle to slow down. I am not very aware of time as it passes. There are so many projects I expect myself to complete. Each day draws to a close and I expect myself to accomplish more, more.

As I grow older (I will turn 30 this summer) I am learning that I must relinquish my attempt to control things. This is a disappointment for someone who once thought they were having back-and-forth conversations with an omnipotent, omniscient creator. I have lost faith in ultimate divinity, but I find it beautiful to embrace the divine in deities with limitations. I no longer take the six days of creation literally, but a seventh day to rest after creating makes good sense to me. I get excited, and I forget to slow down.

My writings are spontaneous flows of thoughts, rarely structured or planned. It makes for poor essays, but my blog posts ride on emotion. My voice is committed to truth, even if it hurts, especially when it hurts. I shine a spotlight on secrets, revealing the overlooked. In thousands of comments and messages, you’ve told me that my revelations cut deeply. Emotional wounds find solace in this little corner of the internet. Here on my site, I aim to provide a personal experience for every reader that feels like an embrace in the midst of grief and loneliness.

My voice is caught in breathlessness. When I meditate and the guide tells me to focus on my hands, I feel the pain of too much work, but the pain of holding still is greater. My hands flow across my laptop keyboard when I write, my piano keyboard when I play, with sponges and brushes across the canvas when I paint. I dread the rests, keeping a rhythm and pausing for effect, stopping to clean the brush. I am terrible about giving myself breaks. When I do, I indulge in music. My chronic pain flares force me to rest, and prevent me from dancing with my whole body. Instead, my hands dance out my thoughts.

Breathing is easy to forget, yet it is necessary to live. I am doing too much. I am catching my breath just long enough to sip air before diving deep into learning again. Yesterday and today I talked to my financial advisor and business coach about how I’m spending my time and resources, and I am spread far too thin. I have plans to archive this site. It’s been growing for ten years, and it is time to shed the skin of my old identity. I am itching at my scales, dead and falling away.

I am not Cynthia, I never was.

I was never a woman, either.

This piece is not one I planned to write, it is simply falling out of my quickly moving hands. I feel immense relief in admitting that I don’t belong here. When I have time, I will launch a site with my real name. I will legally change my name, too. I will be known for who I really am. When I have time, I’ll write my final piece here on this site, and redirect you to another domain. There, I’ll post my future creations.

I remind myself that music has many rests. I must inhale between the lines I sing. I must pause between activities. Music would have no anticipation, no moments to make our emotions fly and dive and wait, without the rests. I’ve always served myself more than I could possibly eat. I have hummed a thousand more songs than I’ve managed to compose. I’ve thought of a thousand more essays than I’ve structured and drafted with care.

My appetite for creating beautiful things is neglectful of the pain in my hands. I am in school so that I can learn how to stop writing such grammatically awkward sentences and such abrupt conclusions. I don’t know when I will write again. I have so many plans to talk about so many things.

I cannot create all that is in my mind.

I can enjoy and appreciate that other artists exist, too, to sing the words that resonate.

Stars lived and died, and so did billions of ancestors, so that we can be here, in this moment, breathing. Noticing that breath, I realize it has already come and gone, and will never be experienced again. Each piece of writing is fresh, and it’s a mess. I didn’t draft or plan this, and I know it shows in how raw each sentence is.

Every idea I introduce is left hanging, not carefully analyzed. How could I believe that I have control over the world, when I have so little control over myself? I am not able to do all that I wish. I am learning to relinquish control, to allow my hands to rest. I am not doing that right now, obviously. I’m typing, and my hands grow weary.

I am listening to the album to familiarize myself with its tunes and lyrics. I am excited to experience a live concert like I never have before. If you’d like to join me for this experience, it’s not too late to get tickets to the digital performance. There are two hours left now.

I am not affiliated or sponsored by Aurora in any way. But if you like my writing, please consider supporting my work on Patreon or leave a tip on Cashapp, Venmo, or PayPal.