It is with great distaste that I unravel the parts of myself that I otherwise would’ve left behind; the fearsome woes of the decisions I did not make; the roads I decided were best left undiscovered; the life that I could’ve had but preferred to dream about. In this way, I can finally come to my own senses, my epiphanies that have been there since before I was even born. It has become quite clear that no matter the hinderance of my anonymity in my own mind, I can detail each travailing incapacity that has struck me. There are many ways, whether cumbersome, that one can easily slip into the backroom of life and let it all slip away; keeping myself just above water so that I may continue to witness the light of the world. In some shape or form, I am a testament to the choices I’ve made, whether that be of circumstance or concern, I am the me that I’ve become under my own supervision. As parts of my self have become unveiled, I’ve made myself a witness to the torments that I can no longer abide by. When the dust has begun to settle, I will no longer be here, wallowing in my pain, wondering why I could’ve done things differently. Perhaps that is the true meaning of life; finding pain in the places that are recognizable and knowing that although you can stomach it, there are simply other ways to sustain yourself. But without the awareness, we are merely flesh of the Earth, prancing around and waiting for the next devastation.
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I remember when love seemed foreign to me; a wandering story about people who, unconditionally, cared about each other. As a young girl, the impressionable stage is set and you wait for someone to show you what love really is, if it even exists. You are only aware of what exists or doesn’t exist, but you can’t know if it’s real. Love could be objects or places, not always people or words or hugs. How impressions are forged is really to do with the people around you; family and friends and parents. I think love can come naturally to someone, even if they’ve hardly received the feeling in return. When a person is constantly rejected, it doesn’t mean that they simply stop loving. It just makes them not want to give their love as often as they used to.
It is a lucky virtue then to possess the ability to love and to be able to give it to someone. Whether that be through language, physical or emotional expression, it all translates the same. I am lucky to have been loved and still loved by a person who has taken the time to know me. There is not possible way to always know how someone is feeling but they should at least know that when you’re feeling down you are there for them. Sometimes, I find it difficult to explain it because I’m still learning about love and all that it means. An ever evolving synchronicity that dips within the ebbs and flows of each day.
There are tough days too; when you are not well and you can’t reciprocate the love that someone might be giving you. We are only humans with limited capacity and tenuously so, gripping onto life. I’ve learned that it’s important to be kind to the ones you love and care about, it is easy to forget sometimes, that the love remains. I don’t mean forgetful in the sense that you just completely forget love exists, but we all need reminders. The forgetting comes from overconsumption of self hatred or rumination of past selves. We shall have reminders that we are loved and valued; the dreams we once had still have potential, the songs we never wrote are still inside of us somewhere, and there are so many stories still yet to be written. That person that you love, and you them, will remind you that you’re still alive.
It is not easy to be loved when you haven’t been loved as a young child. The memories stay with you, they don’t just disappear. Our minds create these little boxes for the bad ones and we put them in there and hope that we don’t have to open the box again for a long time. Or at least until we are ready. When you force yourself to keep the box closed, the mind can’t simply process the newfound love that is slipping inside. It cowers in itself and gets worried. You get glimpses of those bad memories, they are trying to flood out of the box. Somehow, you lose control and you can’t keep the box closed anymore and it begins to open. The flashes of light, the harsh words or silent nights, they surround you. How difficult it is to want to be loved but to be unsure on how to receive it when you do. Not everyone has a bad memory box; we just all understand that they exist too.
Love appears as a tiny bird on your windowsill, churning at the breeze, sipping fresh air, it breathes. It stares back at you and you look closely: the blue lit feathers and little beak. You reach over to touch it and it flies away, hoping that you’ll follow them. That’s how it feels, this love, like you can fly. The tiny blue bird is so close, you can hear the brush of its wings. Like a kiss across the clouds, it simmers into the sky.
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The smoke levitating from the stucco walls
I’ve been here before, when the fire broke
Drenched amber fluids seeping by the woods
Castrated your mind, that one swoosh of air
The smoke kept climbing up the walls
In rose-colored tears : a malingering flimsy
My eyes cannot bear to me what you’ve done
To the me that came after, the ending
Crescendoing tremors baked inside my chest
I’d wish so terribly you’d understood
When the firemen came, in golden yellows
We should’ve enjoyed such helpful fellows
They yearned the way you yearned and hoped
All the malice in the world would soak up
Watered down, like a fish in and out of water
The fire came and went, flames up the walls
I’d wanted so badly, the desire that never left me
The fire never stopped burning
But they washed her suits and gloved hands
The departure of our saviors, a grace
We can no longer afford.
The burnt flesh of life; the stuccoed finally
Fall apart. Red smeared on every inch inside me.