*I wasn’t planning on linking, but sentences spilled on page as the sharpness of the word stabbed deep. It’s as if the word were a name tag, taunting to be claimed. I have a feeling many of us can pick it up, plaster it to our shirts and try to avoid recognition. But we wear. We resonate. And if we’re honest with ourselves, we just may write it out. Join us, you brave and injured. We are all imperfect. We band together.
That which is everything opposite to what I know myself to be. Ok, I’ll try to be more fair…what I feel myself to be. About 99.99% of the time.
Engulfed: how I perceive my being – by everything around me. All the missed steps, the fragile choices, the better-thans who glide past me in so many ways on countless passing days.
Somedays it defines more than just my inward views. Somedays it achingly describes my hope.
The hope in that which is bigger than I.
The hope that whispers that I could be….be something. Do something right for once.
Not be the weaker-than. The faller-short. The too-complicated or mighty-emotional.
And I quake at insignificance. I shake my head at good words placated at my feet. No disrespect to the droppers of sentiments…my head shakes because sometimes I pity how you think you know…oh but you just can’t see clearly. The perception of me is jaded in your well-meaning eyes.
It’s not your fault. You may think me transparent, but I masquerade more than you can possibly imagine.
For I know my weaknesses. I’m a master at their shapes – their jagged edges and shards of duplicity.
But you know what I am imbecilic to at a colossal degree? – Truth. The new reality.
All these things I know of myself, despite any argument you may try to provide, are facts.
I have flaws cascading from the spaces of my flaws.
Don’t try to retort. I’m sorry. I’m sure you love me in your own way. But you can’t win this one.
I am broken and damaged.
B U T
That is the old me.
Because that part where I’m dumb to its magnitude? It’s the new part. The transformed truth.
I’m supposed to be different. Changed. Clean.
No longer scary and derelict.
Though more often than not, I’m the one who’s blind. Who sees blobs instead of definition. I can’t see past the minuscule into the holy.
And it shatters me. This astigmatism of authenticity.
Because I want to own the changed. The good words. The words that have more power than any language can attempt to conjure – save the language of nails, wood, empty tomb and victory.
….there will be more days, weeks, where the so-very-small will still feel as if it’s winning. As a brand seared into skin announcing my belong, my failures will bubble and blister. My neck will weary from the shaking and my ears will burn from the appeased. My ducts will sting from the baths repeating.
But change will stick.
Memory will return.
The Warrior will stay patient. Ever by my side.
He’ll pick up the slivers and still the quakes.
He’ll whisper new words and show me my name – carved in a tree.