That pulsating, palpitating flutter. Everything feels heightened, standing on edge. I look down to see my fingers twisting, pulling, kneading at one another in that anxious way. I feel tight and loose at the same time. I feel like a bottle of something carbonated. The label says DO NOT SHAKE but this is life, fucking life, what is it if not shaky? So of course I’m shaken (don’t kid yourself, we all are), bubbles begin to form and rise pressing out and up searching for an escape but the lid stays on. (I know how this works) If the lid comes off it’s a spewing, foaming, bubbling mess of emotion and liquid – I don’t have time for that shit. So the lid stays on. Time, time heals, time will calm the bubbles, they will recede into their placid state. Idiotic, to ignore the fact that they still hold the potential to bubble and burst. It doesn’t matter I’m boldly aware of the fact that I’m not solving the problem, I’m just looking for a temporary bandaid. I need a distraction, one that will fog the corners of my mind and pull me back from the rawness of fear that’s begun to seep in. This is change. It’s happening. It will take place whether I’m neatly boxed up and prepared for it or not.
Reflection. What a continuous conundrum self-discovery is. Things we thought we knew, turn out not to be true, or contradicted. That gut gnawing fear of change somehow nestles inside a restless body. A vessel that holds both deep-rooted desire for the unknown and childlike neediness for certainty. I crave and detest the familiar all at the same time. I beg for comfort of security then find it bland when I have it, feeling cornered and suffocated. Then find myself in the throws of something damn near abusive to negate it. A constant pull and push.
My reckless heart could never be much more
I let those words roll around in my mouth, soft and then strong. The truth of them sinks in like a flavor I can’t quite put my finger on. All these words, these labels, never knowing which ones I identify with, which ones I want to be identified with. Another push and pull – fuck you and your false preconceived notions of me…but wait fuck – don’t leave, (not yet) don’t see only the darkness I posses. Of course this causes me to recoil from my own bite. The venom that lingers, making it impossible for that blissful short-term memory loss to kick in. I know I’m the cause of my anxiety. I know I’m the reason the light has gone out. But what I also know… is that I am the light. I am the source. This was my choice. It’s all a choice chosen. So with that I decide to peel off all that’s been weighing me down. So often there’s a disconnect between the mental and physical, sometimes it’s blissful, necessary and begged for. Sometimes, it’s conflicting, infuriating and painful. Today the discord was the latter. I need to bring the two bodies together.
So I hear I sit. The white cotton that kept me covered and contained during the day. I no longer need this layer, in fact I need to shed it. It somehow possesses an unbearable weight. I feel the soft cotton warm from a days wear fold and then roll onto itself as I pull from the corners. Lifting up over my skin like the graze of fingertips, one layer successfully removed. The light from within though dimmed from self-inflicted stress and anxiety begins to softly glow. Flickering, but that’s all I need, just a flicker of strength and light. If you ever doubt how much power can come from a small flame light a small candle and hold your hand above it – the heat is palpable and undeniable. My strength may seem to be small and shaky right now, my inner light timid and cloaked but it’s there. I run my hands over the newly exposed flesh. I watch it rise in tiny peaks trailing behind my touch. I am responding to the light. I am the light.