I’m feeling hypocritical.
Not in a sense of fakeness, or not writing what’s true to my heart. But as a writer, I’m continuously writing. And sometimes my thoughts just pull in hundreds of directions. And sometimes that happens all at once. And sometimes I’ll write one thing, then feel another and write something completely different. And it feels like I’m writing myself in circles.
Even though that’s how my mind truly works.
I wrote a piece yesterday, a very honest piece, about how I’m feeling right now.
It’s about how I’m a runner, and I’ve always loved to run.
I’ve been able to run, to run away, to find and discover myself and a home in more place than one. And as I begin to think about leaving the town I’ve called home for the last five years, I’m having that urge again—that urge to run from all I’ve known here and chase myself, find myself in a new place.
It feels real. It feels honest.
But today I was compelled to write something about love, and how it never leaves us. Which makes me feel like I’m being hypocritical, in a sense, to what’s on my heart.
I guess I don’t know. Maybe I’m caught somewhere in the middle.
My heart, my head, my everything is telling me to go. Is telling me to never forget where I’ve been but keep my face forward to new beginnings. And I’m excited for that.
But I also love. And even though I’m not loving anyone right now, there’s always that part of me that I can’t avoid writing about. The sensitive side, the loving side, the side that forever finds love in everything. In everyone.
So I don’t know. Maybe I am hypocritical.
Or maybe I’m human.