The Wolves at My Doorby TigressSky (July 11, 2014)
So how do I move on?
How do I re-ignite that bright shining fiery confidence in who I am; how I am?
How do I walk comfortably in my own skin? A skin, that since my teens, has filled me with the despair of it's ever numbering imperfections. Imperfections of my minds eye. Imperfections placed upon my vision by society, a drunken mother, magazine covers, and teenage boys who "oink" at me as I walk down the street.
Most importantly, how can I become comfortable wearing "alone" again?
When you fall off the pedestal of others hopes and dreams of you ... you fall ever so much farther than the original starting point. Deeper, ever deeper. As the hand of despair grips tighter, pulls hard, placing you farther than Hades reach has ever been. Deeper, ever deeper. Until there is nothing left for your heart except ...
Clawing my way out, I can see over the edge. I grip tightly to the precarious threshold, fingers bloodied. Eyes pensively peering into the light of the bright world around me. A world that keeps trying to deposit me here - under my desk, outside the hands of the most ancient of Gods. A world that screams out at me, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!
My nails now scratched short enough to play the music of my soul. My tear stained cheeks are covered in the mud of the past. My heart beats with the love I felt, with the love I feel, with the love I have yet to discover.
So it is I prepare to step out, to step forward, to step onto the plains and ride the white buffalo into the bright orange sunset. A sunset that will lead to the final years this life has to offer.
I can't continue to grasp at straws that have weaved them-self into a basket of ideals I simply no longer fit into.
Besides, you should never put all of your eggs into one basket.
Especially when your eggs don't produce.
A gift of freedom from the Gods? Or simply a cursed broken record formed in your youth? The one that can't get past, can't get past ... can't ... get ... past.
So it is I turn back into a child. I turn back into my heart. I turn back into a wild woman, Lady Godiva, holding tight the bison mane of adventure as the wind blows through my hair, across my face, and my past becomes my present - except now I hold the reigns.
I'm thirsty ... I hunger. Yet what will fulfill my cravings?
That is what I have to discover. That is what I have to risk it all for.
Will be empty.
If I don't.
That is where people die - crying. Inside a soulless shell of missed opportunities wrapped in a life of "what if's?" Stuck, waiting, for death, for this moment in which no one is around to stop you. A moment in which you realize that all those times you did the right thing, said the right thing, where the right thing, never mattered. All those "right things" affected no one who desired them as much as it affected you who performed them ...
In the end.
How many adventurous opportunities have I missed while maintaining some form of comfort in my life that would all slip away someday anyway?
How many problems have I placed upon my temple by giving into a hope that this time, THIS ONE DAMNED TIME, I would be seen, I would be loved, wholly, fully, completely, for who and what I am - always.
Yet the expectation of love seems to be that I will never change. That I will never grow. That I will never become more than this moment. That I will be okay as second choice - forever. That I will accept my place in the lot of them and never question the tire treads of their forgetfulness across my heart.
Believing that nothing will ever disrupt the comfort is ...
Everything changes, or else it dies.
Search and destroy.
That is how you grow.
That is how you become.
Outside of emptiness.
Inside of self.