The words came out of my mouth and I immediately wanted to swallow them. Grab them before they reached anyone's ears. I had been thinking this thought. But saying it aloud, forming the audible words, made it real. What a confession.
Just in the past few weeks, I've let such a confession slip more than once. The last time I may have even whispered I'm not sure I even believe in love anymore.
These words scare me. The truth behind them, rocking me and my ever-expanding world. I was born into a mess. And now I've made my own mess. And it's only a matter of time before my heart starts seeping through the forming cracks, drawing attention to my brokenness. To the way I've changed. I smile as I say that. Knowing you already know.
I am independent. Partially because of my introverted tendencies. Partially as a survival instinct. People are not trustworthy. People will fail you. The hope and truth I cling to is, people will also surprise you.
I have based my life's work on what I believe to be truths: 1) that people will rise to meet expectations (and usually no higher), 2) that you must teach people how to treat you, 3) that if provided them, a minority will seize opportunities, and 4) that people are wholly unpredictable.
And I wonder if I will surprise myself. By overcoming this cynicism. By reaching beyond and discovering myself in a way, which changes everything. Honestly, I thought this had already happened. (In my immaturity and lack of wisdom, I forgot it would undoubtedly happen again.) My word, I've changed so much in the past two years alone. My level of self-awareness, my confidence, my locus of control.
I was in one place, so sure it'd be different elsewhere. And in elsewhere, it is different. It is so very different here. I have to move differently. I see the world differently. I stand differently. Not unlike myself in this place, but much like a different facet of myself.
But there's another elsewhere. A place other than the one before and where I am now. But does it exist? Can my heart have what it needs? Can I let my heart even contemplate this place? Or am I going to have to settle down, dig heels deep, and steady myself in this place.
I don't feel a thing. I started crying over this the other night -- this unwantedness. This desirability without this need. This new level of invisibleness. Oh, to be watched but not seen. To sit back and watch a dream unfold, within arms reach, without need for you. Tears over the way busyness wipes me off the map. What I thought would be a deluge of tears trickled down dimples and the corners of mouth and dried up on chin. Stopped. Dam. Damn.
Almost cried again over something I can't remember. Almost.
But I don't necessarily want to cry. Come, make me laugh. Terrify me. Send the heat, the cold, the salty.
Electricity shot down my spine for a split second. To end in silence and abandonment; the very, which caused the numbness.
To not hurt, in fact may mean to not feel.
And to not feel means I'm hurt deeper. Far deeper than nerves go. It means I lose muscle and limb. And I can only imagine it means I lose my sight. Lose my ability to reach out to others, who are afraid of feeling too. Lose my gift to hold a child in such a way that they are protected from the world.
Here I go. Pressing forward. Reclaiming a certain power in the name of them. For their sake. So that when they come running into my arms, they will both know love and joy. So they can learn. The world, after all, doesn't teach those things.
That may be the only reason I am here.
And then I smile. I am home alone and still I smile -- though no one sees. Because I know the world does not teach love and joy. But children do. Love and joy are children.
So this may be the only reason I am here.
To have dirty feet. And arms heavy with hearts and ribs and toes.
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