Am i loveable?

Sitting in reflection, i ask, am i loveable? Self-indulgent pass-time. i play it like i am. Run around with sass in my pants pouring sweet loving nectar as far as eyes can gaze but is it me? Or is the nectar just damaged tar seeping into the veins of the land? i’m not certain i’ve asked this before. To be L O V E A B L E. What does that even mean? Loveability isn’t universally given between beings. There’s hierarchy. We don’t all have to love or like one another but what’s the measure? Are all beings loveable or does it skip some of us?

Is it measured in relationship status? Conventionally then, i’m the least loveable of all the land. Eternally single. Table for one please. Passed over when selecting from the many. Day-old croissants. The hungry eyes and lazy passes, never fail to starve my searching soul. Somehow it shocks me every damn time. Solo at close. Too complicated and somehow, also dull. Big package. Very little baggage. Carry on only please but a lot. The many tiny pieces eluding grasp. 

Can you be loveable and hard to know at the same time?

Is it measured by what we give? Receive? Do i give as well as i believe or am i the most selfish person alive? i’m certainly demanding. A personal identity wrapped up in being kind and generous of heart, but what if maybe, it isn’t me anymore. Maybe not for a while and i failed to notice. Maybe it never was. Just an egocentric attempt to prove worthiness. To claim loveability as my own.

Maybe i should burn the house down once and for all. What, if anything, would emerge? The quintessential phenix rising is a pretty picture but there’s no way we can all achieve such reformation. Spectacular birds are not nesting in all of us. Sorry not sorry but it’s true (is this the smoke forming of my tiered mind and bored heart, maybe?). There’s something in us all but majestic birds, i think not. That’s a delusional nursery rhyme we tell in an attempt to bare the ongoing trudge but it holds no roots in any logical truth. God, reality. We Are Not All Made Of Magic. Even among those who believe in it. Flocks of basic bitches playing at being special.

Who is this person writing? A regressive persona rooted in fear after decades of crushing vulnerability, or an authentic voice, bitch-slapping the complacent nice-girl off the throne? i’ve always taken pride in knowing myself but today, i just feel Fallible, Fleeting, Flaccid. No one wants to play with flaccid anything.

Don Miguel Ruiz wisely preaches, “Always do your best.” No matter what it looks like day-to-day, moment-to-moment, just make it your best. Clever ideals that have worked me into such a deep tizzy, my ‘best’ was misplaced long ago. Is it retrievable? A writing of rhetorical questions is the perfect example of how far off my best has retreated. A place where nothing is  going to resolve or inspire and yet, it’s some version of myself sliced open and curious. Simple, superficial gatherings but in this moment, it feels raw. Perhaps neither interesting nor engaging, but raw. Possibly authentic if i even know what that looks like anymore. 

Dichotomy, what an ongoing mind fuck.