We happen to be the very own starting points of everything around us. Starting fire. Creating a chemical reaction between the source of fuel you tried ignoring but it soon caught up with the oxygen you’re tired of hiding. We are caught up in the pain we endure that we aren’t aware it generates other fumes. And now, what could you do of assistance?
Is it to walk away? But we all know you’ll explain it in a way that displays you being the one who was walked on. In your head, you walked away very slowly stalling them some time and observation to notice your never fitting gaps. You didn’t push them away. You simply walked away very slowly for them to notice but they didn’t. Maybe the wounds weren’t noticeable. You don’t have to be mad. ‘Cause a few steps away now you’ll be gone and we don’t want no sad memory.
Letting the feeling stay. You find your source of nourishment through this feeling. You feel it in your bones and beneath your chest. The rise and fall of your own breaths leaving marks of unreturned love. You know you can’t move on without that feeling. It helps even on the saddest days. Ironically, it makes you feel less lonely. They left you a feeling to keep you companied. A sadness to your loneliness. Solitude can now be wrapped in the arms of sweet sweet agony. Causing more rise and falls till the finish line. You finished it. Not by crossing it. You ran the whole god damn race only to look at that finish line and decide you’re better off going back. A choice. We claim we have no choice. You demanded the creation of one so the agony stops.
It wasn’t worth it. The finish line was the win of the heartbreak. The reassurance of what you lost and that you lost it all but you’re so god damn stubborn and wistful that you needed life to reassure you that it’s all over. You claimed that you needed one more run back to the beginning line. Just one more look at the scarred up wounds. You walked back. Couldn’t leave just yet. Leave it all behind. It was never behind us. The past was never behind us. It is the only thing presented in front of us the whole time we set foot in the future. It is held as a reminder. Therefore, don’t force me into tossing it behind my back when all I’ll be doing is staring it right in the face.
They want us to stare right through it. With our souls being shredded to parts and pieces that we have to claim we don’t need back. That way we’re strong. With the bloody tears having to claim that they are tears of joy and happiness. That we are glad it happened ’cause we wouldn’t have learned/changed. Point proven, or perhaps after all it isn’t.
How can I be thankful to what started fire in my life and never taught me how to put it out?
Till I caught flames. A burning torch. Give me more and more metaphors. Of the power fire resembles. Was it only me feeling these words burning through me? My own metaphors not feeling pretty. And yours feeling literary to my skin. My burning skin. But no one wants ashes in a funeral. You need a body. To bury. To hug. To mourn within the days that follow. Keeping clear memory of the sallow face and stiffed hands each time you got to hold them, allowing yourself to feel the touch of what was once a living sinning soul. Was the fire meant to die out?
The memory never fades along with the friends you’ve gained. They’ll rest beside you on your soaking pillow. Your uneasiness to strangers won’t be reasonless. And surely you feeling this is not another meaningless encounter.
Maybe we are meant to reach the highest of highs and the lowest of lows to make use of this life we’re living.
Maybe we are the only ones who do know our way out.
Honestly, you get to choose to believe if this was all prudently prepared or just meaningless gestures.
Truly, though, the fun part is getting to actually choose.