Writer's Note:
Even so, I am a verbal processor and I began to write my thoughts. This one was written at the barest moment in my life. Raw. Harsh. Difficult. I write even now as I did then, but I write about Joy because that's where I'm at. I don't presume to make others see nor push them along to their own healing; but I share this to say that those who live in a space of freedom fought for it, owned it, became, and suffered so fiercely that it is indeed a passion to seek joy and ease for others. So, feel my heart, as it was then, so that you can appreciate the hope and future that is yours to be had now.
I give you:
Myths and Heroes
Self-preservation kicks in on the brutal burn of a dry, painful throat, threatening tears and the unwelcome sense that heartbreak would conquer yet again. It's the self-preservation that breathes in ragged whispers of drowning agony but moves through the torment, numb almost. Scarred, wounded but ignoring the spasms of throbbing, aching grief just for the moving. Just for the forward motion to be anywhere but buried alive in helplessness.
Self checks into auto-pilot, fingers running along the edges of familiar, abysmal territory. Flipping the switch of the internal motor, still warm and heated from the friction of desire, electricity and the vestiges of what had been Joy. Lights flash on as the machine that would give solace in pounding, physical energy, fuels the thoughts which would spur action - Daring, telling, firing the bullets of determination, re-building walls and bent thereafter on shoring up the power to never to be scorched again.
Single-minded purpose closes out all else in a tunnel vision bent solely on survival, protection and the resolute, unwavering power of oblivion. No more conscious feeling. Back into the pursuit of unbreakable beauty, an untouchable fortress where nothing can breach, raise, or abandon one more time. Alone. The machine balks under the gate of strides that become longer and faster, sweat running, dripping and mingling with tears in blinding anger and yet demanding absolution and resilience.
Cannot lose. Will not lose. No pain. No pain. No pain. Running, running, running. The flexing of muscles and mind breathing in and forcing the beat of all yearning into complete and total submission, until the end of the session is marked by staccato gasps and total exhaustion. It is over. It is painful. She is shattered and bled dry.
Emotion now burned up in the fuel of activity, and yet fostering stubborn certitude as fractured particles of spirit mix in with the blackened dust of the running belt, now left far behind in the cumulative distance of blinking numbers on a display screen of stationary traction. Illuminating almost what could be the comic hilarity of a human treadmill and the cycles of pain.
And yet knowing...
She will rise another day because heritage and courage demand it and will not relent, nor accept, anything less than continuing on doggedly through - until the next go round. Defeat, perhaps. But not defining.
Even if she will never be the same again.
Myths and Heroes
Self-preservation kicks in on the brutal burn of a dry, painful throat, threatening tears and the unwelcome sense that heartbreak would conquer yet again. It's the self-preservation that breathes in ragged whispers of drowning agony but moves through the torment, numb almost. Scarred, wounded but ignoring the spasms of throbbing, aching grief just for the moving. Just for the forward motion to be anywhere but buried alive in helplessness.
Self checks into auto-pilot, fingers running along the edges of familiar, abysmal territory. Flipping the switch of the internal motor, still warm and heated from the friction of desire, electricity and the vestiges of what had been Joy. Lights flash on as the machine that would give solace in pounding, physical energy, fuels the thoughts which would spur action - Daring, telling, firing the bullets of determination, re-building walls and bent thereafter on shoring up the power to never to be scorched again.
Single-minded purpose closes out all else in a tunnel vision bent solely on survival, protection and the resolute, unwavering power of oblivion. No more conscious feeling. Back into the pursuit of unbreakable beauty, an untouchable fortress where nothing can breach, raise, or abandon one more time. Alone. The machine balks under the gate of strides that become longer and faster, sweat running, dripping and mingling with tears in blinding anger and yet demanding absolution and resilience.
Cannot lose. Will not lose. No pain. No pain. No pain. Running, running, running. The flexing of muscles and mind breathing in and forcing the beat of all yearning into complete and total submission, until the end of the session is marked by staccato gasps and total exhaustion. It is over. It is painful. She is shattered and bled dry.
Emotion now burned up in the fuel of activity, and yet fostering stubborn certitude as fractured particles of spirit mix in with the blackened dust of the running belt, now left far behind in the cumulative distance of blinking numbers on a display screen of stationary traction. Illuminating almost what could be the comic hilarity of a human treadmill and the cycles of pain.
And yet knowing...
She will rise another day because heritage and courage demand it and will not relent, nor accept, anything less than continuing on doggedly through - until the next go round. Defeat, perhaps. But not defining.
Even if she will never be the same again.
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