I read about fantastical things. Places I’ve been and have never been, places I’ll never be. Vicariously sated in tiny increments. My footsteps haven’t touched enough exotic dirt.
Except in dreams. Even in nightmares, the most beautiful blood is pumped through my own ventricles. I am a luminous creature, reliving my undoing. Sleep comes in neat little packages, in between the glittering moon and the morning light, slanted through my bedroom blinds.
Blindness is its own choice, isn’t it? I’ve chosen to be blind to many of my own needs and desires in trade for survival. That thing we do. That thing i do. Get up, wake up, brush off the night and carry on as if I am normal.
I am not normal. I am utterly abnormal in a glorious way. Why is it painful for me to embrace that? Painful, Like fire on the skin. What an annoying personality flaw.
I am clawing my way up from the rabbit hole and I feel every foothold. Every place I dig in to hold on, I leave a mark and it does, too. Indelible, incredible, inescapable. Maybe I wil hold on to some of what is me. Maybe I will leave it all behind in tiny pieces and paint myself something completely new. Some, stretching, graceful thing. Something tall and beautiful who wears her power like the jewels of coronation. Maybe I will fall int my own peace.
Or maybe, just maybe I will be loved enough to make it past this. I think I am.