And I stayed, and I stayed in my body. I felt it all. I stayed and I breathed and I hurt, I cried, I remembered. This is what it is to release trauma from your body. I hurt and I cried, I remembered and I felt and I made space, so much space for love, and that love rushed in and I became who I was, before. And that pain, and that love, it became my art. I found the sweetness in suffering, I made a home in it, and I knew I would stay in that sweetness always.
In hell your tears do not cleanse you but burn your face like acid, and your anger is a futile, impotent shadow of itself, and you are reminded with every step of your insignificance. You shrink, you shrivel, you watch helplessly as pieces of you blacken and die and fall to the ground to rot. Still you search the skies.
Some days I forget myself, and I stumble. I wake from nightmares sweat-soaked, shaking, crying. Some days I am blind with melancholy. I see only in murky visions of memories I cannot bleach from my mind.
There is serenity in suffering. A kind of blissful agony.
The tears that stain your face carve pathways and deep gorges in your heart, and you are a raw nerve in a world that is indifferent, and you feel everything with an intensity that shakes the very foundations on which you are built, and you struggle to contain the light.
I hid away in my head for so long, my body became a foreign land to me. A scarred and brutal landscape where demons roamed free. A place of nightmares. I lived in the past and the future, always afraid of presence. Afraid to cross that border, lest those demons tore me apart.