Self-Inflicted Torture

[thebarbalag]

Well, that was dumb. Sifting through a miasma of things I would have been a part of, memories I might have had. Was there a point to any of that? Is it just to pull at the stitches over wounds I still haven't let heal? More likely it's because I'm scared out of my mind, reaching for anything familiar to help me feel grounded. Everything is so up in the air right now it feels like any minute I might lose my mind. My soulmate's getting married, not to me, not that I ever expected her to. Elsewhere I'm seeing the man I used to be, so tiny, so frightened of moving for fear of falling. For god's sake, it's not like the landing would have killed me. Looking at all the wonder and all the magic I missed out on because I was so shivering and terrified I couldn't move. Now I'm all motion and decision. Everything I do has a purpose, so distinct and vital I can hardly believe it, but this is who I am, a landslide, not a mire. Why did I sit idly by and watch some of the best things to ever come my way pass by in other lives, other stories...let's say it was my bio-chemical matrix and I didn't have any choice. Let's say I am nothing more than a product of an indescribably complex interweaving of chemistry, physics, and the kindness of strangers and be done with it. Who needs personal responsibility when you've got science? Goodbye, blame, and shame, and pain and any number of things that share the same slant rhyme. Hello, avalanche of decisive magic and determined action. Really now, I'm done apologizing, even though I've got some sin left to sow. I'm going to make my mistakes with gusto and vigor, and seek out what I can, and what I will, with all that I am. Look on the other side of the fire place, fearless, ready to dance all night with my new life, where ever, whatever it might be. Who knows, I may yet end up hunting down something I've lost. But I won't follow Proust. Not any more.

Making a wish, counting crows...seven for a secret, never to be told...