Misplaced

I seem to have misplaced my magick. I suppose it's still there, I've just misplaced the means to extract it. I've always been out of place, on the fringe, slightly off-kilter from the rest. I've always rather enjoyed it, but being misplaced seems to offer no joy. My magick seemed to disguise itself in my out of place nature. It came out when I spoke. It would spill over people, taking them aback. They would point thoughtfully at me and smile like I'd given them something rare. Sometimes it was what I said, sometimes it was how I said it. Sometimes it would be a simple gesture or expression. Whatever it was, it gave them a new perspective, a new way to appreciate something or someone.

I still have my own way of seeing but my soul has been heavied. I am shrouded in negativity, broken by a bad attitude, depressed by the weight of the world and often embarrassed to be human. There have always been horrible things in this world and there always will. These horrible things make us strong, they are the building blocks of our humanity. It's how we deal with them that determine the strength of our humanity. I have allowed my weakness to creep in and create a negative space for it to wallow. I have let these horrible things distort my perspective and give up on society. After much thought and inner turmoil, I think I may have found a way to dig out my disappointment.

It's no secret that our differences are what make life interesting and our stories worth telling. Our stories are our most powerful means of connection. Our stories are the only thing we actually own. Awake or unconscious, they come with us everywhere. They can be real or made up. They can be shared or kept to ourselves. They can make others laugh or cry or they can keep us company when we are alone. Stories can keep families together, tear friendships apart, connect strangers, or put someone's mind at ease. Without our stories, we would never grow or have any character.

A story can be anything that expresses the running commentary in your head. A simple thought, a painting, a joke, an expression. Your stories get you out of your head and put you into the world. They spread you around and get you involved in life. Here is where I've found my glitch.

I am a very social person. Well, once upon a time I was a very social person. I was the girl parked at the kitchen table with a beer in hand telling my stories to whomever would listen. They would often be about my life, my friends and family. Sometimes they would be fictitious, sometimes they would be drug related as I shared some grand hallucination or philosophical conclusion I had stumbled across. The larger groups would get the comedy as I'd save the dramatic or tragic for a smaller more personal audience. I had a way of drawing people in and giving them a comfortable place to share their stories.

Everything changed when I moved to a new city. I no longer have any friends and it seems I don't know how to make any. I guess I've had a good run of luck with friends up to now. I've lived many places and I've always had friends. Looking back on it now I've realized my friendships were built-in, easy access, just show up and they'll be there. I grew up in an isolated northern town. Small towns breed large groups of friends. I was lucky enough to have grown-up with a plethora of strange children that I never felt like an outcast. I am still friends with many of my weirdo hometown friends but I've lived apart from them since leaving high school (I've been 10 years gone).

Then there's college. Stick around long enough and you'll find someone to shoot the shit with. The first time I went to college, I went with friends from home. The second time, I was in a film class of thirty, you tend to get to know each other quickly. After college most of my class moved to Toronto, including me. Built in friends. I never once even had to make an effort. Now I'm in Vancouver. I've been here a year and I have no one to tell my stories. I've been living inside my head bouncing my ideas off of my own grey matter. Thoughts yet to be fully formed are bastardized by negativity. My fetal ideas are over-incubated allowing them to be mutated into fuel for a bad attitude and an intolerance for stupidity.

This new attitude of mine has made me completely unapproachable when I am alone in public. I walk the streets making little eye contact, barely cracking a smile, offering no opening for a possible connection. I tell no stories so I have no friends. I figure it's time to get my stories out of my head and onto this page and hopefully cure my self-inflicted disease of the mind. Once I revive my magick from being beaten into submission by negativity maybe I can smile and make a friend.