The blog has been dormant, and the fact that I attempt resurrection mid-pandemic is woefully cliche. But, as a wise woman once wrote, cliches are cliches for a reason.
Things happened. Too many things. Too few. Too fast. Not fast enough. In the churning confusion of hitting the ground running, it feels like I had steeled my Self into a tightened knot of kinetic survival-- not standing still enough for the muscles to unlock and the blood to flow. All of this feels abstract, I know. But what I am trying to say is, there was no room in me for the World. I could not invite it in. It spoke in a startling tongue and hit me too hard with its blinding flares. I hurtled through existence, trying as far as possible to have no more inner spaces for outer worlds to rampage.
But the world, like love, like life, seeps in through the cracks and fills you up no matter how many shutters you bar. There are secret passage ways to the core and my traitorous soul was and is too greedy for life. She was raised on curiosity and recklessness, and she knew now how to fight for what she needed. And she needed me to give in. She needed me to break.
I bleed quicker, now. Burn faster. Hurt easier... perhaps this is healing? When the scar tissue softens and the callouses fall off, so I can be foolish and soft again?
I will not pretend that I am ready for The World According to Me. I will not claim any sense of completion or closure. I cannot promise fidelity and constancy. But I do recognise in me a small twinge, a spark which just might be coaxed into flame.
Things happened. Too many things. Too few. Too fast. Not fast enough. In the churning confusion of hitting the ground running, it feels like I had steeled my Self into a tightened knot of kinetic survival-- not standing still enough for the muscles to unlock and the blood to flow. All of this feels abstract, I know. But what I am trying to say is, there was no room in me for the World. I could not invite it in. It spoke in a startling tongue and hit me too hard with its blinding flares. I hurtled through existence, trying as far as possible to have no more inner spaces for outer worlds to rampage.
But the world, like love, like life, seeps in through the cracks and fills you up no matter how many shutters you bar. There are secret passage ways to the core and my traitorous soul was and is too greedy for life. She was raised on curiosity and recklessness, and she knew now how to fight for what she needed. And she needed me to give in. She needed me to break.
I bleed quicker, now. Burn faster. Hurt easier... perhaps this is healing? When the scar tissue softens and the callouses fall off, so I can be foolish and soft again?
I will not pretend that I am ready for The World According to Me. I will not claim any sense of completion or closure. I cannot promise fidelity and constancy. But I do recognise in me a small twinge, a spark which just might be coaxed into flame.
I am willing to try again. And The World According to Me, just might surprise me pleasantly. I am, as always, in your care.
No comments:
Post a Comment