No matter how much I want to run sometimes, run fast and far and never look behind me, running takes me backwards. I know that doesn't make sense. Running should propel me forward. I long to sprint in the opposite direction and put all of the fears in my life long behind me. When I run, I illuminate the fears, I make them bigger than me, stronger than me. What am I running to?
Nothingness.
No feelings, no love, no hate, no sadness, no anything.
A void, the comfortable hole where it feels like nothing changes.
That hole will suck me up and savor me.
I will get to use to the feeling of nothing and curl up there, like a baby in a womb. I will think it is safe, but I know better.
It's trickery, the way my mind opposes my living.
The way misery feels like comfort.
The way tears taste like etouffe.
It isn't real. It's my play place. After 3 days of it, my heart longs for something more and I snap out of it, the victimized, martyrized me fades.
I am not Joan of Arc, I am not a revolutionary,
I am just me.
Today, that will have to be enough.
No pretending, no fantasizing,
just plain old me,
sewing stuff.
Painting stuff.
Stuffing stuff.
Writing stuff.
