Sunday, July 13, 2014

No Rest For the Wicked



In the early morning hours the heaviness of my heart settles in.
It wakes me from my sleep.
It is like an alarm clock from some parts of hell I don't want to know anything more about.
The pain is like black strings twisting around and around. 
It causes my stomach to turn.
My instincts tell me something is wrong.
And old wound is acting up.
That funny little death problem.
Again.
My eyes fly open.
I look around for the threat.
I question everything. 
Every little thing. 
I exam it all.

Then...

I remember.

He is gone.
He is gone.
He is gone.  


Remember. 

It is over.
It is over.
It is over.

Remember.

You are fine.
You are fine.
You are fine.

I have to get up from my bed.
The safest place in the world.
My husband is sleeping soundly. 
Even though he's much more wicked than I. 
It seems unfair.

I have to rise.
I have to move.
I have to think.
I have to feel.

I have to get my blood moving to other parts of my body.
It's the resistance to the pain that keeps the pain alive.

So, I let it wash over me.
I accept the things I have seen.
So many many years ago.
I accept the things I have felt.
So many many years ago.

I acknowledge the pain.
And it slips back into the dark.
Like the ghost of a small child. 
It retreats into the wall that was built before I knew what walls were.

I drink a cup of coffee.
I take deep breaths.
I move forward in time and space.
In love and place.
It is all just a part of who I am.
An aesthete born from fire.

Or whatever.

This is my life.
This is who I am.
This is me. 
But not all of me.
No no no.
This is not all that I am. 
This is not all that I know.

And...

This is not all I will ever be.

But I am awake now.
And sleep is far far away.

No rest for the Wicked.

And...

 None for me, either. 




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