How to be gentle with yourself.
How to be gentle with yourself.
This is an opening.
This is an opening. An invitation. An awakening.
A reminder that the difference between past and future is but a mere tilt of the head, and that both are fantasies, of a kind — nothing more than constructions and reconstructions and dreams.
We reject the idea of make-believe because it seems indistinct, because we want to believe that the known is more than just a reckoning, because the idea of all that we hold dear dissolving is too much for us to bear.
And yet —hold yourself, dear one.
We are but mirrors.
What I see in you is all that I can and will be, emanating. It is in Otherness, paradoxically, that we find connection; the joy of recognition chest-to-chest with the door slam of rejection. What both say is that I see you, deeply and unflinchingly; that apathy and indifference are not enough for us — not an option, even.
I can’t explain how I feel when I write; how I can be sitting on the sofa or walking along, just going about my day, and believe with every fibre of my being that I have never felt so alive.
What it gives me. What it kindles in me. The love in my heart that I feel as I think of you and I think of me and we inexplicably, inextricably intermingle.
I see you and what I see in you, I also see in me, too.
I see my flaws and my foibles.
And I see how we try. I see how we keep trying. And my heart lifts, and I feel such joy.
Such joy amidst and despite our suffering. Because there is suffering — of course there is. There is pain, always. We are not saviours. We are broken, too.
And my heart breaks and heals over and over again, simultaneously, relentlessly, until I become accustomed to its rhythm and learn to love its twinges.
I belong everywhere and nowhere; a tidal wave, an art form. Made and in the making. I am of my own making. And yet, of course, I couldn’t have got here alone.
We are but specks of dust, dizzy and dizzying and dazzling, shot up - with a spark - into the abyss. We do not need to worry about making our mark, for we are marks, and we are marked, and for better or worse we leave traces on everything we touch — remnants of ourselves in past lovers, your history in her grasp. And yet, who truly knows us?
Not I. Not you. Not we. Knowledge is powerful only in application. So, this question bubbles upon the tongue, a stove with a single flame still burning: what might we do with these fragments? How might we make something beautiful out of them? And perhaps — how might we embrace what already exists?
We are what we see, believe, experience, and I am no exception — simply a conduit.
And still, I belong.
And still, we belong.
It’s the most gorgeous summer’s day. The light is exquisite and your heart is warm.
I am myself. I belong to myself. And, my God, do I truly feel at home.