I have a chip on my shoulder which goes unnoticed, even if you try. It’s there nonetheless, invisible to the untrained eye.
This chip has a voice, a high-pitched one at that, which makes my neck hairs raise right off the bat.
This chip has taken a liking to picking at my successes, warping them to unrecognition and spindoctoring them into messes.
His favourite this week, one over which he rants and raves, is a quality I’m often described with: being courageous and brave.
This chip ponders my actions, my big steps into the unknown, and instead of cheering me on wonders which fuse have I blown.
He says oh so smugly: “Mhm, yeah, alright… so you’re living your passions and spreading your light.
You’ve given up comfort, and the big golden cage. You’ve kept yourself open though you could’ve gone into rage.
You stepped away from a bond in which there wasn’t space for you, though your love hasn’t waned and the distance makes you blue.
You’ve done all these things, and on paper they sound big, but are they maybe not all an illusion and a fib?
Cloaked sneakily as bravery, are these acts not just attempts of keeping at bay your feelings of self-contempt?
You speak of self-love but absolutely no room you make for the part of you that’s battered by the streaks of heartbreak.
Every “courageous” act you manifested into being came from a drive to survive and a deep sense of fleeing.”
This chip squeaks away but he’s not utterly wrong. I move my own mountains because I am both fragile and strong.
I am first moved for change because I hurt from inside, but to choose my steps wisely a different motive I need to find.
The reason you see me move upwards, and this not even the chip can deny, is due to my well-tuned gut and my vibrations that run high.
So, yes. My first “brave” steps on whatever new road may be spurred on by pain and the survival mode. But the subsequent steps, those that form a good life, are fuelled not by fear but a clarity gone rife.
Suck it, Chip.
