Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Fingers In the Sores

It's very lonely, lovely, strange, and normal. I guess the first and the third are what keep people away - maybe the second and fourth do as well. Of course we know that lonely and strange hurt a little. But lovely also burns, in its way, and normal sometimes feels empty. Yet emptiness - really emptiness - is no less than divine.


Artifice drops away without my trying to make it do so, without my caring if it does or not. I watch these things I so long held dear - my beloved manacles that I could not feel - drift away, and it is effortless and painful at once. I dig my fingers into the sores. I swim crazily, just letting the tide toss me. 


Freedom is not easy. It is vast and all yours if you truly want it. A warning.


The loneliness hurts, sometimes. Hurts like it's supposed to - same as you lean into that deep cooking in sore muscles, same as you don't just let yourself collapse, same as taking one more breath. Hurts like illness purging out, like a wound draining. And it's not loneliness like, "No one loves me; I have no friends; wish I was DOING something right now; etc." It's the loneliness of having nowhere to hide anymore, and the parts of yourself that are still raw and unused to being exposed crying to retreat. It's also the loneliness of being very aware of everyone else's loneliness, feeling it like it's yours. It's the loneliness of learning that, in some ways, you are very much isolated and on your own. 


I can never turn around, only forward and wherever the wind says, really. And I am grateful.


Everything methodically collapses. 


This is happiness.

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