I have been home for 8 months, 1 week and 3 days.
I can feel myself peeling away from myself. Not in the "I'm an onion and I have lots of layers to explore way." More of a "neglected ceiling's paint is cracked and chipping away onto passersby."
I can't remember what it feels like to be passionate about something. Creation, astronomy, learning, poetry, discovery, human rights, issues of poverty and homelessness, community, good conversation, tolerance, vocation, photography, empowerment, education, love. All fallen to bills, jobs, stress, interactions, complacency, fogginess, money, lack of money, searching, fatigue, ignorance.
Vibrancy used to come easily. There was a consistent subtle push forward and outward. Boundaries in my mind and spirit that cried to be broken, were demolished. Questions were spoken that wouldn't have dreamed to have been whispered.
But now an empty cocoon is left behind. I don't feel like that butterfly. I think my wings are malformed.
But I refuse to let this win. I don't know how, but it will not win.
A bat fell upon the ground, was caught by a weasel and pleaded for his life. The weasel refused, saying that he was naturally the enemy of all birds. But, the bat assured him that he was not a bird -- he was a mouse. And was set free.
ReplyDeleteShortly afterwards, the bat fell to the ground again and was caught by another weasel, who he also pleaded to. The weasel explained that he had a special hostility to mice. But, the bat assured him that he was not a mouse -- he was a bat. And he escaped a second time.
The bat shouldn't have to explain himself. Weasels should know what mice or birds look like.
ReplyDeleteWeasels are senile and bats can speak.
ReplyDeleteok.
ReplyDelete