In a world filled with warmth, colour and fragrance I can’t help but feel surrounded by a dull, cold, vagueness and it seems that perhaps the echo of winters bite still haunts me.
I feel like it might be coming time for us to move on from here, this blog, this life, at least for a while. Once upon a time writing was the only thing separating our fears & dreams from reality. Writing was cathartic, it saved me from the ruminating thoughts of death and pain and allowed safe passage to the voices inside us begging to be heard.
But I can’t seem to write freely anymore.
My words are tangled with theirs, my feelings too intertwined with the others and too complicated by contradiction to even understand myself let alone begin to express coherently to the world.
I can’t be real on here anymore. I can’t shout my secret needs or darkest desires into the ether in case they are accidentally heard. My emotions seem to strengthen in their divide with every passing day and I’m left paralysed and numb as I try to make sense of the nonsensical. I’m watching a magical world dance and twirl around our dying soul yet we are unable and unwilling to join in.
Anonymity is no longer my luxury and for us to be real enough to stitch these wounds inside us we must remain nameless, faceless, invisible.
While life feels so unsafe right now, I realise that in truth it is only my mind and my memories that threaten me. My perceptions are clouded by experience and doubt, my reality is mine alone, it hurts that I can never know the truth, yet that has to be okay. I don’t want to be fixed anymore. I don’t want to be heard or seen or respected.
A brief moment of chance spent with a medium, we saw her and then I saw her see me, then as an explosion erupted inside us, I saw her see all of us. I saw her react and then try to compose herself, I saw her read our soul, I saw her flash a look of excitement then fear at our energy and as I struggled to pull the others back and quickly ran from the room and realised, I don’t have control, I am not strong enough.
Today I looked at a photograph of my grandmother sitting inside a church praying and wondered how she hadn’t burst into flames simply walking through that door. She still dared cross that threshold and beg to be saved. In that moment I realised that I don’t even want forgiveness, I don’t want God’s love or anyone else’s for that matter. My darkness, my sin, these, like my grandmothers are things that should not be forgiven. These are things words should not undo. I cannot forgive myself, I will not forgive myself and if I can’t trust God to punish me then perhaps I do indeed know better than Him and can do His work.
I would wear a crown of thorns, spear nails through my wrists, I’d burn, I’d bleed, I’d have my body bruised and battered until I died, not for you, not to save the world or teach about love or sacrifice, but for me, because I’m selfish. Because I deserve to feel the wrath, to feel the shame, to be punished, not to be remembered or martyred but to simply atone. I just want to hurt, I just want to be forgotten by the world, I just want to be able to forget myself and slowly fade away.