So I'm leaving soon. For the Paper, to start work. Uncle John says I'm to begin work on the obituaries, which is frightening, not fascinating. Death isn't unsettling to me, but private. John was quite adamant that the obituaries are important because, "Everybody wants to see who dies." He also says I'll be working with the common funeral homes, maybe doing some interviews, looking at some documents, compiling things.
It sends a chill in my heart, but I know my Uncle. John would retain no one beneath his employ whose quality was not to his liking, and he would not have me exempt from that role for my relation. Short order, he wants to see if I have moxy. Wants to see if I may earn the opportunities with which he presents me; a challenge I mean to accept.
This idea entertains me enough to smile, balancing the tricky order between respect for the dead and excitement.
Not to mention I've no idea what the women wear at the Daily Reflector. Is it subtle? Individually-based? I'm tempted to throw on something Penelope-Garcia like, but that seems inappropriate, especially for Obituaries.
For now I'm settling on my hair pulled back (oh, shudder, but Wendy insists). Also, a printed green dress that's covered in little white flowers, my moonstone--because Rose or not, I'll always see my face on the moon. The one I drew on my ankle is gone but I drew another on my foot two days ago. It's getting rather out of hand. Maybe I should really, seriously consider that tattoo.....
I feel naked without the visual reassurance that once I was someone worth listening to. That once people bowed when I passed them. I feel like if I cannot see it, my heart will forget this beautiful, new-found resolution and leave me in the figurative mud--a shame, since it'd soil this new dress. Mum'd be livid, I would, if I came home covered in even figurative mud.
I'm ranting. It's because I'm so nervous, really.
I must learn to simultaneously control the wild and the balance in me. I feel like I'm one of the chorus people from Jekyll and Hyde, explaining the premise:
There's a face that we wear
In the cold light of day -
It's society's mask,
It's society's way,
And the truth is
That it's all a façade!
There's a face that we hide
Till the nighttime appears,
And what's hiding inside,
Behind all of our fears,
Is our true self,
Locked inside the façade!
Every day
People, in their own sweet way,
Like to add a coat of paint,
And be what they ain't!
That's how our little -
Game is played,
Livin' like a masquerade
Actin' a bizarre charade -
While playing the saint!
But I can do it. I'll be both, for to be one is a lie, an illusion: I am quite sick of illusion. Sick of it. Sick of lying to the people around me, even about myself. My pledge for this new life, the life I will so carefully construct around myself, is that I will not lie, will not deceive anyone, especially not myself. I will be decisive and swift in my judgment, but not set in stone. I will be the Eliac of Balance I have earned my way to be.
I will be.....Amazing.
Wish me luck, world.
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