You're trying to fit me into a mold, a pattern - your
pattern. I'm not exactly sure what I am or even what I am
supposed to be - but I feel I am a writer, a poet, a
philosopher, or at least a thinker.
Sure, right now I am not a scholar. I don't have any
published philosophical tracts. I am not even established
as a writer - several published short stories to my
credit.
But I am an arm chair philosopher. I ponder about life, the
universe and everything. I need time, a lot of time, to
just sit and look out the window and let my mind drift
where it will.
Or, even better, sit on the porch - listen to the birds,
insects, feel the breeze, the warmth of the sun - commune
with nature and not feel guilty about it.
You want to force me into a mold where I work a
nine-to-five job and take an interest in domestic chores -
cooking, cleaning, yard work. You want me to get out and
socialize. Act and dress sophisticated. A classy act,
because I reflect on you, your tastes.
Okay, if I live the life you force me to, then where is the
meaning in my life? I mean, we're all supposed to
have a purpose in life, aren't we? Doesn't it occur to you
that by forcing your preconceived framework of what is
"right" on my protesting self - you are destroying my
chance at a meaningful existence?
I guess I'm on retreat now. Retreat from life. Retreat from
you. I do miss you, but I can't live with you again until
you accept me just the way I am. And I am a
writer.
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Copyright © 1998. Lida E. Quillen
This page last updated 5-10-98.
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