I am a jester, where is my hat?

The mind is a wonderful, terrible thing. I often get lost in the maze of my thoughts, and I’ve mentioned this before. There is a different mask I don dependent upon the audience at hand. I often find myself in awkward situations where I feel lost and ill at ease, introvert tendencies beg to shy away from the limelight.

I either withdraw completely of feel the need to ham it up. I rarely ham it up, I’m not all that good at it. I have great one liners, but that doesn’t suit the hour long conversations around a dinner or at a birthday party. You can’t exactly walk away when you have to keep an eye on your kid, who happens to be oblivious to your discomfort. A child is the most demanding audience of all.

So here I am. I am a jester, where is my hat?

If I cannot run it on, if i cannot go live and keep the masses entertained then I close in on myself. I withdraw to the background amidst the crowd and blend into the woodwork. I reiterate, I am a self proclaimed extroverted introvert.

Life does demand social interaction. A writer needs to extend outside their comfort bubble and “phone home” from time to time. An independent writer has to do this way more often.

As a mother, I try not to be anti-social towards the parents of the children who co-exist with mine. I have mastered the art of non-verbal conversation. I nod, blink, shrug, and a host of other physical and facial cues to keep the dialogue going. Oftentimes the other adults are so involved in their own discussion, they don’t notice that I am not engaged. It exhausts me too much to involve myself. I spend all day reacting, guiding, leading, performing during my regular day job.

My children, my biologically born babies, understand that I need to decompress for at least fifteen minutes when I get home from work. Mommy needs quiet time. However, these little minions also help me pull out of my own chaotic mind. I can get lost inside, to the point where I have to remind myself to blink. Blink. Think. Blink.

It can be exhausting, and at the end of every day I have more trouble turning off my mind than my body. It makes for some interesting, colorful, emotional, at times turbulent, dreams. My poor husband often becomes my soundboard for ideas and although he doesn’t always follow, he doe listen. At times he reminds me that whatever makes sense in my mind to me, sometimes needs a little more explanation out here to others who don’t think like me.

He helps me keep my feet on the ground, and a smile on my face. Writing is what soothes me; it allows me to unravel the threads of thoughts that try to smother and overwhelm me. At the end of the work day, mother day/night, and wife life I am still me. I get to remove the hat, and just sink into my bed with a journal, pen, and some tea. I reflect on the moments with eyes wide open and I try to paint a canvas with letters instead of colors. My words, my poems, my ramblings are my gallery art pieces.

I am imperfectly perfect.

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