On Committment

Commitment. No thoughts come to mind. I have no immediate ideas, feelings or emotions towards this word. I actually don’t know what commitment means to me. At times I want to remain uncommitted to everything and everyone. Yes, uncommitted. I want nothing to do with your expectation for me to be there, to go with you, to share with you. You can keep it. I hate being committed to other people. It limits me. I don’t know from what but it does. I’m realizing through this writing that I might have commitment issues. Especially with people who might have the ability to commit back. I will commit to ideas, principles, visions. I will die a martyr’s death for a cause. I will show up, be on time, give everything I am to an ideal or belief. I will not commit to you.  Only if you won’t commit back, but I happen to see something in you. Only if you’re in my life for a short time, a fleeting moment, a season.  I will make up for your anti-commitment. I’ll do anything for you. I will be enough commitment for the both of us. My commitment knows no bounds. It is a deep, self-sustaining vat. Commitment means being something I can’t guarantee will be there five minutes from now. Commitment is an albatross, a statue, a memorial. Commitment is stagnant and suffocating and limiting.  I loathe commitment. Maybe that’s why I hate painting. Once I put a brush stroke on a page, I immediately regret it and want to change it. Take it back. But to do so would be to ruin the picture or eliminate it all together. I’d rather just stop painting. Committing to people is shitty.  Committing to an idea is different. There’s a chance for hope, a freedom to change, transform, evolve. A freedom to be reckless, to wrestle, to shatter, to fail.  People aren’t like that. People aren’t freeing.  They drown me.