MY JOURNEY-----Day 1

So I start my 23 day writing spree in an awkward place. Though I wished I would have started off with a poem of epic proportions, my heart is not in it. Emotionally drained as I am, I have not come to a point where my brain and heart and coordinate in a fashion that produces beautiful work. So instead I write. Just type away as my thoughts laden with underlying emotions present themselves to the paper. My life as a whirlwind is dying down and though I would usually describe this aftermath as standing among the debris, I have no sentiments that I have created a disaster. Though some things felt terribly wrong, nothing has me to the breaking point. I am stronger. I am healthier. I am almost happier. But I most certainly more free. Not that anyone or any one thing kept me chained, but the extent of my circumstances kept me locked in a metaphorical cage from which I was too scared to escape. Though never locked, I knew reality was on the other side of the bars, and it was not a reality I was willing or desiring to face. So I remained caged. For the longest time I was caged. And caged contently at that. But with every new experience comes a time for it to end. To use the lessons learned to better yourself. See, life is a chain of cycles. We experience times of observance, where lessons are learned and experiences are sought, and a time of action, where lessons learned are applied to your past, present, and future. My time of incarceration was one of observance, and more importantly I observed myself from the outside in. For over a year I observed. I had intermittent periods of growth. Times where I stepped out of the cage. Went for a walk. Experienced and grew. And these next 22 days will serve as my reflection. Giving me a chance to utilize the past year of my life and create a new me. Or maybe even find the me that has always been there, under the layers of a tough exterior, and perfect fascade. But at the start of this journey of reflection, I am emotionally drained. The biggest source of the drain lies in my realization that though substitutions sometimes come very close to the original, they are just that, substitutions. And though I thought substituting would work, would absolve this ache, it only made me hurt in a different way. The only thing better than a substitution is the introduction of something new. Something completely different from the rest. Something so off canter that it is refreshing and beautiful. But that beauty is not found in leftovers or spoiled milk. That beauty is not found in old scars or healing wounds. That beauty is not found in dried tears or recently swollen eyes. That beauty can only be found in things never experienced before, never seen before, never felt before. It is this newness that I seek, I yearn, I need. Substitutions are a dangerous thing; now I know.