The Words I Wish We Could Take Back

Indifferent – When you were gone, you were not here, but when you were here, you still were not available. Just get angry again! Do something already, so that at least I would have something – anything, to fight against.

Idiot – Why the philosophy of assuming the entire world is just a holding pen for idiots until they’re somehow proven innocent? Am I not part of the world? What then, does that mean for me, for your family?

            The one I will keep is “I love you.” You are the most painful, the most bewildering thing that life has smacked me upside the head with. But still I love you.

Come and See

You think that I am not smiling, but you have not seen my heart – I do not think I have ever been more content than when on this, my trail. Do not call me back to that city – do not ever dare to bring it with you, even as you chase after to talk me out of my melancholy. Useless words! Stop this mindless chatter. If you consider yourself open-minded and truly courageous, there is room for us to walk together. So walk with me – but bring your own shoes. For though we may pass over the same stones, though we take hold of the same young saplings to steady us over this uneven path, do not imagine that you will learn to dissect and reassemble me like a pocket watch with so many parts. Indeed, you will have barely begun to discover the breathtaking beauty of your own wilderness as we walk hand in hand along this, our trail.

What They Should Know About Me

… Oh sure. I know what they think they know – quiet mouse, scared of her own shadow. I’ve listened to them for so long sometimes I forget that those beliefs are ones that I accepted –  I did not create them. So what can I tell you? I’ve heard you ask others, “Does she even talk?” As if you thought I was deaf as well as mute. Ha! Can she talk – must be the joke of the decade. I have so many thoughts running through my mind, that sometimes I think I’ll explode. Yes, I talk. Paper is my mouth and this pen is my tongue. Do you not hear me? Can you not read? I do speak – just listen. I am shouting, silently.

“Here’s What I Remember From That Night” (A Writing Prompt)

It was a dream, I think. But sometimes it’s hard to tell; dreams are tricky that way. I can feel the ache and shaking, the nerves throttling through my body and all I can think is – “Oh no. Not again. Not this cliff.” And not until I wake up with overwhelming dread to I realize that it wasn’t really real –  or was it?

But back to that particular night. Right before that dangerously close point of no return, just before the fatal decision I’ve followed so many times before –  time stops. I look at my demon, and then to the Man standing next to me and He reminds me, “You do have a choice. Your past does not have to be the script of your future.” And so I closed up that nasty creature and gave it to Him.

So yes, it was a dream, I suppose. But some dreams do actually come true, and I want to be there while it happens.

Remembering Freedom

Someday you will want to remember this – but not today. One day you will be able to look back on your journey so far, and be amazed at the great distance you have come – but not now. Not here, in this time of your life, this dark back alley of your heart. From this pit you have dug, the near constant defeat of your ragtag joke of a soul’s army, you think, there can be nothing worth saving. Nothing that could possibly belong in that mythical fairy tale land they call Freedom.

I know. I remember. And someday you will want to remember too. Not today, of course, but that’s ok. Really, it’s ok. But when you finally do arrive home, your best and most precious memory will be of someone named Jesus, who taught you that Freedom is no fairy tale.

Finicky (Response to You Should Have Been There)

Actually, no.

I’m tired.

Go away, like now so

I can breathe, please.

It’s silly of me. Stupid in fact, to think that we could be happy; awkwardly trying to hug each other on opposite sides of a glass wall. I’ve felt ignored to the point where your personal attention to me freaks me out more than anything else. I don’t know how to handle it. Now that I’ve learned how to keep to my self quite well thankyouverymuch, you are getting mellowed out. You want to talk! I feel like a cornered rabbit. What kind of craziness is this? I have no clue how to react to even the smallest gesture that is reminiscent of the one thing I have always wanted.

I Began to Notice

Inspired by the prompt “I Began to Notice” at a writing workshop; 7 minute exercise.


Funny how I grow up used to how things are and think that it’s normal. Like how I always dump my laundry in one corner of my room and my backpack in another and my nametag in the same corner of a drawer. Or that my dad always reads at mealtimes so I gave up and did it too. Or the scar on my left knee from when I fell on a street paved using black tar overlaid with small, rough stones.

One day my mentor and friend told me that it was ok to hurt. It was a strange thought, that I could admit that I had something to heal from. After that I began to notice old wounds that had formed many years ago. And they were just beginning to reconnect with my nerves. That brought pain. It scared me, but at the same time shouted – “Be happy! You’re alive!”

Flip

I don’t really know if this one needs much introduction, it’s pretty much all in there. This moment, with so much background that fills it with unseen meaning is probably common to all of us in some way or other. 


He swore and stomped off, all because I had flipped the light on. He wasn’t expecting the brightness; he likes it dark. Saves electricity, he says. I think it’s a recipe for stubbed toes and smashed noses. I’m scared of the dark. Scared of the history behind two and a half seconds of control lost. But anyways, he’s gone now and I am free to prepare for work tomorrow.

Free supposedly, and yet awash in the painful legacy of generations of no one having been taught how to face the world and live life well. No one having learned how to build a safe home rather than settle for an emergency shelter for life. The strain has worked its way in to my DNA like a virus. The very air I breathe is heavy with the unrelieved pain of my parents and their parents and many more before them.

I’m trying to build my own life, see. A good, strong, safe house. It should be a logical thing that I get my tools and skills from him. But he didn’t walk out of his shelter with a well-equipped toolbox. Heck, nobody even gave the guy a measuring tape. And now I’m supposed to forgive and still love a man who might have taught me how to build a house, but instead is likely to flip out when a light is flipped on. The man I expected to be my architect never had a blueprint.

In the Middle of the Night

 

Being compassionate to ourselves can be harder than showing it to others. When we look at our insides and compare them to others’ outsides, no one really comes out of that intact. This was another workshop piece, written with 7 minute time limit to a prompt which serves as the first sentence of the paragraph.


In the middle of the night she slammed the car door. No one heard her. No one was there to hear her, and that was good. Because if there were people around it always had the effect of lowering her voice involuntarily. Right now she wanted to scream, so she did. “Why can’t you just do what you’re supposed to do? You can’t do anything right!” She couldn’t remember the last time in her whole life when she had yelled so loud; it made her ears ring. Hot tears poured down her cheeks as she looked up. Up to a dark black sky glittered with the many millions of stars of the Milky Way. Up to a God who called the stars by name. He was crying with her. She was seen and heard, and even through her heaving sobs, her heart began to heal once again.

The Person Who is my Secret Weapon

Is not a person. In fact it was my refuge before I discovered that defense can also be offense. The first step in overcoming an enemy is to know what the enemy is. Give it a name, know how it attacks you. Write it down. It doesn’t really matter what weapon you use, both arrows and knives can kill. So attack with ink or graphite or Microsoft Word. Use prose or poetry or single worded cries for help in all caps. The thing is that I’m learning that a letter for help is equal to an attacking charge in battle on my addiction. So I write. I write my way to freedom.


(Paragraph written at a meeting of my writing group friends in response to this prompt, which is also the title. For all prompts, we are given 7 minutes to write whatever we can. Try using the prompt yourself, let me know what you think!)