Catharsis
Five minutes from now I begin the usual nightly routine of working until my eyes seduce the bed and my brain gives in to its funk.
The last three weeks at Phili's Inst*itute haven't been nearly as stressful as everyone cautioned. Maybe it's because my own little life experiences have taught me that, in the long run, deadlines and assignments and expectations are trivial. Every requirement has been accomplished, deadlines met. I don't know how. I just go, do. Throughout all of the going and doing and being and structure and people-hurting-themselves-with-stress, I can still stand back and feel peaceful. This isn't pain. It doesn't look like this. This looks like growth, which has jagged edges at times. Pain spurs growth: it isn't growth.
These students of mine, new yet similar personalities as my former, they get the methodical, healthy me. They get the person who has left tragedy behind and not looked back. My students get my stories, but my stories are no longer me. My every day creations, sequences of movements, thoughts, and street paths are me. I feel free; a sense of focus overwhelms.
Then there are these new people that are becoming fast friends. People aren't what I expected. I feel loved. I'm part of something important, even if it means I've been brainwashed. It's not the organization I feel connected to, it's the new relationships.
The last three weeks at Phili's Inst*itute haven't been nearly as stressful as everyone cautioned. Maybe it's because my own little life experiences have taught me that, in the long run, deadlines and assignments and expectations are trivial. Every requirement has been accomplished, deadlines met. I don't know how. I just go, do. Throughout all of the going and doing and being and structure and people-hurting-themselves-with-stress, I can still stand back and feel peaceful. This isn't pain. It doesn't look like this. This looks like growth, which has jagged edges at times. Pain spurs growth: it isn't growth.
These students of mine, new yet similar personalities as my former, they get the methodical, healthy me. They get the person who has left tragedy behind and not looked back. My students get my stories, but my stories are no longer me. My every day creations, sequences of movements, thoughts, and street paths are me. I feel free; a sense of focus overwhelms.
Then there are these new people that are becoming fast friends. People aren't what I expected. I feel loved. I'm part of something important, even if it means I've been brainwashed. It's not the organization I feel connected to, it's the new relationships.
