I have tried to imagine this world, filled with color. One that I think I may have missed out on, hopefully by choice. I've tried to soak in the meaning of life and simply allowing the vapors to permeate my skin, hoping that I'll reach the "full" state. Yet, I yearn or more. I have no words to describe this yearning; just a piece of me wnats something out of this life I don't think I can ever achieve. Right, of course, I want the answers to all my enduring questions. I want a picture of safety and hope, those of which I "know" but can't seen to hold to.
My imagination allos me capture a variety of instances and none of which I am content with; I seem to be on the look out of for more, hopefully swaying in the "right" direction. My minberates the very idea that the past is indeed the past, and amy psychoanalytical babble will not allow these very instances to subside or cease to exist. The past is what I've tried all this time to walk away from, and it keeps chasing me! I want the action to be subtle, like drawing the shade of a curtain and being "done" for lack of a better word. The effort requires much. It requires acknowledgement and letting guilt and shame roll off my entire being refusing to live the rest of my life in this state of protective fear. My silent demands are loud, yet my actions are few. How do you learn to value the person you've put a barge around out of protection? I mean you simply accepted that you were to exist and whatever that looked like was perfectly fine? As I dig deeper into trenches, shuddering with fear I can't help but wonder how this all came about, when did it all begin? In some instances, I ask myself "What have I ever done?" My intenetion was to be seen and not heard and did my best to just keep to myself and this is what you get?
Yet, just as quickly the glance meets the eyes of my mother. I am tempted to remove my eyes from her, yet I remain locked unable to move. As I try to look past the person she tried to be, I carry an emptiness I can't quite explain. I push forward, again, attempting to move my eyes away from this person, for what she was, what..she..si., and now here I am, left with only a legacy to replace the heartache of loss, even if the wording remains simple. I noticed in this moment of imagery I begain to take a step forward, almost as if she is drawing me in, and I resist. Instead, anger fills every crevice of my body and the words "I Hate You" are the the first things to emerge. She was dying, was it easier to be mean and hateful to think eventually this loss would become easier to bear? Time and time again. I put myself in a position of difficult rearing. I refused even those who loved me to guide me down a path that may have been more certain, but who are you kidding; I couldn't dare take another risk. I took risks, in silence. I took risks and the risk which would have been labeled "good" and fair I turned away from, and no one knew quite how to reach me in this state. I refused to allow this outer barrier to be broken. I fought with everything in me, my wit, and my humor to protet "that" person inside a hurting soul.
2 comments:
The walls we build to protect us are often the same ones that become our prison. Being a broken person is never easy, the smallest step in the direction of trust seems to be miles long. There is healing and freedom, I know I've tasted it. I know you can have that too. I am praying that you find it, and that you allow Him to find you.
Somewhere I missed this post. Your words are resounding and a prison it has been. Light is coming through is small doses and I flirt with the idea of "letting go." Thanks for your words.
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