Ramona Powers and Me

How odd that Scott Pilgrim vs. The World of all films would spark in me this impulse to write another post.  (Hilarious movie and trust me, I’m not an artistic loon who finds the poetic in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.  Some things just hit close to home.) I found myself incredibly connected to the odd character of Ramona Powers.  I, too, escaped from my old home (with the exception of my beloved family) in an attempt to leave my addictions, manipulations, power struggles, and all the rest of the mistakes behind.  Last week I stood a little too close to my past and I found myself whispering to myself my own little mantra, that I am indeed a good person, whatever that means.  That I can live with myself.

I also share with her the genuine confidence in myself and yet, I still have my insecurities.  I still let things get under my skin.  Sometimes I wish I could achieve that Yoga-like calm in my life and just melt into harmony, but I know I never will.  I don’t know if I should really.  I don’t think I’d want to wake up every morning knowing that no matter what, I’ll feel peace.  I have all of forever to feel that but right now, I think I’d like to be affected by things.  To let anyone and everyone into my deepest, darkest recesses of my heart.  To be judged, cared for, kissed, manipulated, admired, used, and all the fantastic adjectives that we all do to one another.

I am a fool.  I have made others fools.  But as I sit here in my drab apartment, snuggled in the corner of my cheap, comfortable couch, with my fingers finding the words to send to all of you, I can’t help but feel satisfaction that I have escaped.  That my past is and will always be real and a part of me, but it lost its power.  My future is luminescent, but it doesn’t cast shadows on my present.  I’m here.  With all of my beautiful complexities, I am breathing a life worth writing about.

And I’m just an ordinary girl.

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About Kendal

Just a girl.
This entry was posted in Hope, Imperfections, Love. Bookmark the permalink.

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