Just how do you know when you've said enough on a blog post? Are there rules that one is supposed to abide by? Oh well, the chances of anyone ever reading this are so slim that I guess that it doesn't really matter. I'm not trying to be negative about this, but seeing how I don't really plan on telling people I know where to find the blog, it will only be random people that stumble upon it and may they will be intrigued by the ramblings of a middle aged woman and read this and possibly post a comment. Maybe someone will recognise themselves and their struggles or joys in what I have written. One will have to wait and see. I know that it is "working" for me, I am finding a certain amount of peace in capturing my thoughts, feelings and memories here.
I was just going to say "I digress...." not writing about the roaming girl, but I am writing about her, for she is me! Always with me. That little girl so full of life and questions, talking her way through life. Talking with friends, family and strangers alike.
Words, spoken and written are the thread that continues to piece my life together.I just want to write and write and write. So much to say, so many feelings to try and capture. This is not so much different than that little girl, visiting ,wanting the company of others, always feeling alone. Feeling so disconnected from family, having a sister that was 9 yrs older wasn't such a great thing. We were always separated,not only by age but by our personalities I know that she loved me, but we had little more than genes in common. I was blond and outgoing, interacting with people easily, while she was dark haired, dark complexion and had inherited my paternal grandmother's dour personality. it's strange because according to my mother she started out in life a lot like me, outgoing and inquisitive. We shared a room and I think she felt a bit put out about the whole thing. Because of sharing the room I really believe in sleep learning. I know all the words of the popular songs of the 60's.
It's really strange when I think of her when we were growing up. I always admired her, thought that she was so popular, so with the "in" crowd. There were always lots of her friends over, she did all the right things. Listened to the popular bands, did her hair, had lots of boyfriends.I don't remember the sour side of her, my mother says that it was there for most of her life and cost her many relationships. I only remember her ever getting really mad at me once before she got married. Weird isn't it?
Then when I was a teenager I so wanted the life that she had had, not the mixed up convoluted life I led.Where did she come from, that crazy teenager? That Little Roaming Girl... that's where. The little girl looking for a place to belong, to be important, to be noticed. The little girl who loved her Dad, and couldn't understand his coldness. I never doubted that he loved me, he just couldnt' give me the attention that I desired, that I craved. The little girl who wanted her Mother to notice.
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