Posted on March 12, 2010 - by Rasham

EVERYDAY

I awake in a panic: I scramble beneath the sheets: oh God, not again, what’s happening? I want nothing more than to return to my tortured dreams, at least there my experiences are dismissible and I don’t have to deconstruct the myth of being alone: I tally my score, I summarize my life up until now and I slowly release the heart beat that rocked me from the safety of sleep: I can’t go on like this. Its only 9am and my first thoughts are related to the ones that brought to me down down down to bloody knee some time ago: I want to shrink, I want to run with the rising populations of urban pests. Stop. Breathe. Listen. This is not an invitation to crumble; it is an invitation to coil beneath the sun.

I gesture to leave my souring nest but pity is a poison best sipped near the entrance of a new day and I ponder my own willingness to stray the comfort of isolation. No. Not today. I can’t go on like this. Ready. Set. Go.

I escape; I scurry into daylight, my shadow trails behind and I find a seat before the sun, beside a tree nestled eloquently in a bed of mulch and stone. I drop down down down to bloody knee: I can’t go on like this. Stop. Breathe. Listen. Screeching tires, busy doors and voices of people pushing sloppy conversations through forked tongues: over it all the piccolos cry, there it is: there it is: one tree in a field of asphalt has the power to pull angels from the sky. Its 10 am, I slowly release the heartbeat that rocked me from the safety of sleep; I undress my armor of emotional impermeability and learn that I am none of the things I call myself. Ready. Set. Go.

Dear Journey,

Confession:

I think maybe I tried too hard to be a hero around this. I dressed in an armor of emotional impermeability one night in the distant past and I neglected to change suits. Today I sat in the sun; I felt small. I miss feeling small. It felt nice. I surrendered the energies to which I have been so attached, the ones inspired by you, ignited by this spontaneous connection-

I write this as the thought of you reading these words makes me feel vulnerable- it is from this source of uncertainty that I trust you, dear Goddess, to provide nourishment for my spirit; music has been a fine dose of encouragement, colors return to grace the buds in beauty’s arms with pink-pointed kisses.

Or maybe its that I hold weakness in the back of my throat and it is now creeping upwards, shorting neural connections and breeding odd ones instead- I don’t know anything, but that this is not an end is something of which I am sure, though it has presented itself as one for some time now. And so I grant it the respect it deserves and I bury it while reading these words; otherwise I might turn my back to catch something shiny and new while this precious gem reluctantly floats out to sea…

Love,

Rasham Writes