written: 01.08.09

Words words words… They hit me like a spear being thrown by a Zulu warrior in the depths of Africa- fast, piercing and straight through the head; hurled into my skull cavity so hard I was stopped dead in my tracks, still standing and agape at the world… And somehow, I’m still here.

I’m always still here, inside a tepid nucleus miasma- clear and sticky gellstuff, sometimes shining brightly but mostly just present.

I don’t know how to reiterate who I am.

I don’t know what to make of America’s Three Ring Circus Society and how in the hell I’m supposed to squeeze in. Am I operating lights? flying trapeze? It certainly feels like it lately. Maybe I’m shoveling mountains of elephant shit in the sweltering shade of hot trunk breath… whatever it is- I sure don’t feel like the Ringmaster, because I think he ran away and left us all playing; children in an empty house with all the grown-ups in town mysteriously disappeared.

I am supposed to be part of society, right? We are all supposed to be in this together, right?


And then there are words. So few to wonder at why one should bother, too many to sit in one’s head without rattling around… words. At once, prismatic nectar giving my soul cause to breath and space enough to fly; yet strange in my head unsettling what tremulous equilibrium I manage. My faith in humanity falters with each fluttering eye movement, prompting wavering keystrokes to make sense of something I can take home.

In regards, I’ve been writing for five years now, prompted by a dying ember nestled in the ashes of a charred heart once smouldering. Can I let the cat out of the bag? (Wait, I’m a leo- that’s funny in a sordid kind of way) I kept that cat in that bag for so long, I wonder that it didn’t suffocate.

I hereby bequeath all my bags to the betterment of my trashcan. Au Revoir, I say- to dying embers and all. I can’t afford any more of that sort of hope; not if I want to wholly love again- which I do.

I really, truly do.

I remember saying that I would never build those sort of walls. I would never erect tall walls of stone about my heart, to keep it safe. Safe from hurt, but also safe from real love- unconditional and scary, crazy, viral love that catches hold and won’t let go; BIG love, so big it won’t fit within any kind of wall and positively permeates your being. No, “I won’t build a wall around my heart” to keep out that kind of love or any kind of love. “My heart will always be free.”

I spent the last three years building just such a wall. An immortal monument to my understanding of self and unwillingness to let anyone that kind of close again for fear of inevitable abandonment.

My wall was solid until someone said, build a door… “Now,” thought I, “There may be a real start.” So I built a door and it was good. I placed a Welcome Mat right outside and after my first visit- well, I was left alone in that big ole’ wall once again. So I left out the Welcome Mat, but locked the door, sure and tight.

Over the past year or so, I’ve been breaking down that colossal wall of mine. I now stand before the last bit of rubble, shamed to have ever let it grow. Because grow it did, and it wasn’t until I was ready to tear it down, that I ever even knew it was there… Goodbye wall.

See now? How I have relinquished my boundaries and stand, willing before the universe? I am stripped bare on a fertile plot of land- surrounded for so long by such cold, and ready at last for some sunshine. I am scared, so very scared, but I am free.

I am done with walls, I am done with them and I will help you break them down. We could all use a little sunshine. I will bring my warhammer, but I won’t swing until I see resolve, sure and sweet with a sledgehammer of your own.

One swing to words my friend, and another for walls, this last swing is for myself; to break my heart once more for good measure- it will save someone else the bother, later.

Because I’m done with broken hearts, too.


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