When my heart rains, I write
When my heart rains, I write
To cherish what is present, what I’m connected with, and to not throw that away in pursuit of what’s absent or ambivalent, what’s disconnected, discontented. The days of finding security in expunging all that’s hidden are over. My safety lies here, in my pulsing blood, in my rhythmic breathing, in my feelings that run deep. I’m an ecosystem and I trust that regardless of what comes at me, I’ll be able to return to my balance. I clear away everything superfluous that slows my flow down or obstructs my internal connection by forcing me to hold back my flow or find another, less invasive, path. The more I reveal to myself, of myself, the more that is revealed all around me. Even the silence speaks back to me in echoes.
Your truth doesn’t need words to be. It’s a derivative of the One whose witness never fails or falters. So if others deny or downplay your personal experiences, don’t take the reactivity bait because that’ll enter you into a never-ending mental imprisonment of constantly trying to establish your truth outside yourself. Only love can provide the nuance that accepts your truth. So if you have to explain or anticipate invalidation or skepticism then that’s a sign that it’s an inhospitable space for your truth. Don’t force yourself into that atmosphere.
Death has walked through the valley of my life and its footsteps still linger in my body..
I cannot use force against my pain without killing that which allows me to endure it.
I feel abandoned on a visceral level
My existence unmet on the levels beyond thought and words
My emotions left unanswered, unacknowledged
The emergence of an instinct to grab on to something, an anchor in the physical world to remind myself that I’m actually living
That I’m not the phantom I feel myself to be
My existence is vague, like it might as well have not been
A faint line
I feel a deep resentment towards life. I wasn’t received when I needed it the most, and now I don’t need it anymore.
The mundanity of this moment taste metallic.
The grey treetops stripped naked by the cold stretch out like scarecrows, like swaying cemeteries. The wind circling around them seems bereft and in disbelief as if in denial, like a mother clinging on to her child who just breathed his last, rocking back and forth with him in her embrace.
The scariest part of life is that life is independent of will. Spring doesn’t rush to protect nature from the cold because the cold is also nature… Ironically, for spring to interrupt the shedding of life would be to interrupt life itself. So I guess in that regard death is creation. Life wouldn’t be life without unexpected endings.
Expectations are human creations. It rings hollow and shallow because every time it approaches the depths it’s yanked back by the leash of control.