This is what it means to grow up.
I used to believe that the way we get past bad things is that they went away. After it was gone, you could begin healing.
Now I know differently. Things do not go away, not by magic or by providence or by accident. What actually happens is that you learn to grow in spite of it, maybe because of it. And when the day finally comes that the thing does leave, if that day ever comes, you will hardly notice its going because it has ceased to bother you. This is the strength in growing up, because it is so much more than the passing of time and events. It means something. It means becoming more, different, more thoughtful, careful, wise, kind, better. This is what it means to grow up.
Scrubbed clean and I am sad.
You see, I have not ever wanted to be this clean because being pure and clean means that the obscuring dust is removed and all I am left with is the ugly barrenness, the true texture of things. The ache is revealed, it’s shape is made known, and so I am clean.
I suppose this shape only makes me sad when I can see it because I usually cannot see it, and I am not familiar with its strange contours.
He IS kind and I AM lost.
A riddle is not a riddle when the mystery is stripped away and the answer is not magical anymore. It is just a little unorthodox truth. The only thing I can compare this to is having the padding stripped from the walls and finally being able to hear the richness of an uninhibited echo. It is still just an echo, but one I have waited to hear for so long.
I pity myself because of the deep joy I derive from echoing in the vastness of the truth. There is more. There are wider arenas to explore, but my aching heart does not bear to explore them because it shrinks to fit inside the echo it longed so long to hear.
The eyes are not here. There are no eyes here, only ears that hear the round sound of the ringing wind in the cave I so long occupied as prisoner and now stand in because of its breezy open emptiness.
Emptiness and echoes, yes, but true and satisfactory, too. There is nothing good that comes from an empty room, but lies cannot exist in that room or else it would cease to hold the noble resounding sound of the echo of truth. There is no feeling there, only truth. There is no sound there, only feeling. Only my presence exists, not my body, certainly not my face. Just a full presence in the empty chamber, empty except for the barest hint of a rich echo that points me towards the truth. And continues to ring, within to without, nobly unceasing, tenderly unnerving. It continues and it reshapes my aching form with its fragile vibrations until I am made whole and being clean hurts so little that I am not clean at all. Just whole.
I met a man who saw me from the inside out. It was like I was upside down and he saw me right side up.
You see, some people are just like that. Who they are right now isn’t who they really are, it’s just the self they are choosing to wear, like a really unflattering wool sweater.
And sometimes, they don’t even know that there is a different self underneath that sweater. And all it takes is for a special person to see that, tell them that a different sweater awaits, and they can take off the scratchy wool pullover and wear something else. It is a gift to be able to see someone from the inside out, and if you can, I would encourage you to speak it out loud. You never know that your words can be the difference behind someone staying the same and becoming different.
You may just be upside down and inside out right now, but don’t worry. The right side up you is right there. Just waiting to come out.
Be brave. Be that someone who speaks the light. You never know who needs to hear it
Never have I ever known such pure happiness as the joy I feel when my best friend is happy. She is a clear hearted transparency of an individual. Honest and sweet, pure and excited, lovely and honorable. I do not know where her life will take her, but I find myself hoping in her hopes, putting faith in her dreams, wishing right along her side on that wishing star.
She is a beautiful princess. Her fragility is her strength, her immense breakability is her power, her vulnerability is her most valuable gift. My Gabi girl is a shining jewel, a rose that grew up despite the continual prodding of thorns on her tender leaves. She is a diamond, a pearl, a soft light, beckoning towards a gentler atmosphere where things as good as she may flourish.
To know her is to love her. The vastness of her love for humankind is unbounded. A glow follows her, special warmth radiates from her beaming face, glows from her brow. Humor and wisdom, self-knowledge and sorrow, humility and fun have sharpened her soul and clarified her spirit. She is emboldened by pain and made fearless by her own beautiful spirit. Gabi is as magical as the stars that shine especially for her.
May my girl be protected from the harsher storms, guarded from more pain like that to which she was exposed so early on in her important life. Her being is a testament of angels residing in human form. She is good, gooder than most, better than the rest.
I am so happy that she is happy again.
Everyone admires the person who bears up under the storm, but no one wants to hear them break under the cruelty of the elements. Lend me your ears, for I shall steal away from my dark cave and enter into no-man’s land to tell you a story.
Plexiglass walls line this reality. I am not within them, however. You labor under the misapprehension that people who struggle with depression or suicidal thoughts live enclosed in a cage, separated from the herd by their shadowy feelings. It is you who is in the cage. I am without, watching from the glare of a streetlight the festivities in your living rooms and churches and cars. I feel the wind blow and the icy blasts while you are insulated in an environment so far off from what is real that it is no more natural than a painted tree. My agony is plastered on my skin, tarred and feathered. My life is comprised of peeling these layers off, with skin impacted, until it is time for another match. And I watch, eyes wandering, mind bored, you all, celebrate in your dimly-yellow-lit rooms, so full of dust and choking perfume that to enter into one is to die one death and be reborn into a new body entirely. I grow and shed my skin apart from society, but I never reform. I stay locked in my own image, merely growing or shrinking based on the whims of the tarrings and featherings happenstance occurrence. You two, you may trade arms and legs, like casts and molds, amalgating into one another, always shedding some hair here, another limb there, never retaining your independence of self. I pity myself because I am barred from melding into half of a whole, a trifecta of parts from people I love. I forever remain a growing, tearing human, wholly apart, never joining another, never shedding my skin and trading it in. And still I watch from the streetlight view, looking at me, then looking back at you.
I dream of it, as I rip chunks of my flesh off and cast them away. You, cool and unbothered in those painful dank chambers. You, with the close casualness of acquaintance. When I engage in relationships, I am enclosed so tightly in my cage that to touch another is to hug the bars that hold me together, and the barbs hurt much worse. So I watch with wandering eyes, flirting with the idea of going inside, and carrying the cage with me. It is too heavy, and I do not like the idea of going inside, and I cannot leave the cage for just anyone, or anyone, so I stay. And another bit of me grows back and I pluck a bit of me off.
Like a bird, only this bird plucks her wings of feathers and clips her feet and scrubs her beak and spends a lot of time reading. Ad infinitum and ad nauseum, even ad absurdum.