When I came to, I was free-falling. Some portion of my besotted psyche somehow knew that while this wasn't a healthy state, it was a natural one for me. Being weightless is phenomenal, although the only way to achieve it is to plummet. L'Amour said that the space a man takes up in the world is equivalent to a finger in a pond, and that once it's withdrawn, the pond barely notices. Maybe I've been testing his theory.
The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.
It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.
A spirit broken can mend.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment