I find myself wanting to rekindle the painful experiences, recalling them to be things of great beauty…things that never were, things they once weren’t. It’s easier to do than push through the cataclysmic.
I find myself wondering if everyone lives through internal prologue, going through decades dancing and drinking and driving on back roads. Periods of discovery that are parallel with abandonment.
I find myself waning like the moon, yet earthen in the things I gain from decreasing. Lying on the floor, raimentless, and recounting of all of the times I’d count popcorn ceilings in hopes it would help make the time pass.
I find myself weaning from the things that once held me captive. I don’t need to be in control or exert power in the form of bitter nightly postures. I realize I am not in control. But I have power in ways, I never knew I’d possess. It would only take years to cultivate.
I find myself waking up knowing better. I think you were unmoored; and, I, very affected. I was but a young girl. Forgiveness floods my soul that once inhabited a darkness so vast, you couldn’t navigate the dimensions.
Sometimes, I’ll get asked, “How?” The face mirroring mine—always somber. And that’s when I smile. I love the deep wrinkles it creates, because I know that I am loved. And I know I am not in control.