Saturday, April 25, 2015

Balances of Truth: Being vs. Being SEEN Trying.

She discovered that pain is more than pain when felt in full truth. Its a darkness so black that no lights, no other possibilities can even penetrate the thickness. Everyone watching and witnessing are merely masks of her self-hatred. It is a silly waste to even think they need to punish her. 

These, are furious and fighting words of a night not slept well. So seldom do they roll in, but when one does, it is with gravity and pounding thunder.

The discovery of such dark pain also exposes the heights and beaming hope of happiness found in truth. The capacity of joy and contentment are so great she cannot yet paint its hues yet.

Balances are the force that keeps all of nature tightly woven. Lion kills for a cub. Suns gravity swings in harmony with lunar pulls. At its smallest; the atomic positives need the opposite to exist.With endings there are so few this unforgiving. Broken social norms and lies told create such a barrier for empathy. This she understands. 

Even her softest, most capable hands cannot reach past the collective ill-wishing from so many. Too much of  life exposes those less awake and merely confirm their own “innocence" of sleeping through it.

She has a deep dwelling in being. She always has, nameless as it is. She holds no tools or machinery to remove it. Before it was destructive and nihilistic searching for fertile ground. Now she irrigates that same ground with grace and gratitude. Words are getting worn with use but they prove stronger than ever. She does fear the drought though. At what point does the flow stop attempting to push through the soil?

The hardened winter hurts the bud at first. Then the next centurygravel-paving, and now the concrete. Even with cracks for aesthetics, these narrow spaces are too slim and the hard rock too dense to  squeeze through. A bud all too often denied light and food will sink back and wither. A refusal of such proportions over such lengths of time may just shrivel the beginnings of hope.

I am she. 

The broken bud may eventually bow in defeat. Or perhaps it will rise to light through pollen and seed to begin again as all of nature has intended. From bowing to bud. One more time yet. 

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