I promise..

My journal entry starts with “I promise…”

I just finished reading a strangely depressing young adult fiction, and I’m still full of the emotion that it left behind. Somehow deep but empty. I’ve been moved; I have felt something. I’m inspired and paralyzed at once; I open my notebook intending to let my feelings spill out onto the pages and all that comes is “I promise…”

I’ve been waiting for some profound statement about the new year, some grand outline for the necessary steps to fulfillment.

My mind is on the moments we waste, on the passing seconds we can’t get back.

The book I read is laced with tragedy and misfortune, all in the attempt to motivate me, the reader, to feel. The “tortured artist” in me soaked it in, licking my wounds and retreating into myself.

“But am I really deep just because I get lost in my sadness?” The thoughts come in among the pens and empty pages, “Why do I feel at home in this inner world I’ve created, when it’s so far removed from the one my senses engage?”

Depth should be all the colors in one. A place with full range of emotion.

I set my pen to the paper, and new thoughts form:

“I promise… to laugh more. I promise not to dwell in my tragedies, because they don’t make up the mysteries and complexities of who I am. I promise to forgive. I promise to live in every moment, not because I’m afraid to lose them, but because I’m committed to being present. I promise not to poison my moments with ‘what ifs.’ I promise to learn from the anxiety and let it go. It does not make me glamorous; it is not what sets me apart. I promise to explore my depth. The sadness, the joy, the anger and everything in between. I promise to seek out every version of myself and make peace with my diversity.”

I see you, and I’m committed to being seen.