A great deal of pain comes from this place of knowing there is no way to heal the gaping wound wrought by past trauma. No matter how badly I desire the bridge of communication to be passible, it isn’t. No dawn in the future, only a lingering dusk just after light has been sniffed out.
Once a thing is broken, the only choice has been to destroy it completely. Once a stain appears, the whole is forfeit. This absolutism deprives one of the responsibility of repair, or repurposed use. I scrap only what is irreparable, and despite the portents of death, there are still some damaged, tattered things I believe in.
Figuring out what to do with this has been a struggle for me. I am powerless, in the dark and unable to find a safe way out. The constant reminder of my previously earned solitude hangs on me like a bundle of meaning over my shoulder. I long so desperately, yet don’t exude and effuse in my daily life. This torment stays almost entirely within, in a place it can be kept away from contaminating the rest.
I’m pretty sure this is indefinitely ongoing. My future filled with the anger of years carried on across the plain like a ceaseless thunderstorm. All the while the wind and rain, I keep hoping.