The stuff you find……..

During this most stressful time in life, I began following some bloggers, writers, even pinterest boards expressing emotional thoughts and ruminations. I was writing myself, and finding great amounts of therapy in it. I am sure that all the reading and searching I did helped sharpen my writing skills, which once again need to be run across the whetstone.

This is from one of the writers I followed, and I am not sure I’ve ever read anything that hit me so hard at such a poignant time in life. It was profound.
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She’s always been in there.

Deep.

So deep that she can often not find her way out.

And yet when she does, she is wretchedly beautiful. Wretchedly, because she is impure, unholy, frighteningly independent, sometimes out of control. Beautiful, because she is pure, independent of the melancholy that weighs her heart, and true to her deepest soul-yearning. Complete abandon; still holding on. An eternal, internal, dichotomy. Always wanting the impossible, never satisfied; always knowing she should be.

The discontent of the soul is so much worse than she ever imagined. The longing, the wrenching of the heart, the tears that never come.

To be in such a state that the body is torn from the inside….. The lungs cannot take in the very air they need to live. The feet cannot take another step forward. The mind cannot help but to look back. And it is this very looking back which causes her to be released. She knows she should remain so buried in the mire of life that she cannot reach the surface, yet there she is, gasping for air, grasping for anything, everything, that will pull her into the light of day.

It’s almost blinding at first, which, she comes to find, is a good thing. Like having been in a deep cave, in which no light can pass, then walking into the most beautiful sun-drenched afternoon, only to find that the dark in which you have grown accustomed has seered your eyes.

Then, as time wanders down the highway of living, the eyes become transformed and can slowly, painlessly see that she is thriving, relishing in the sunlight. She has escaped the purgatory which had her bound. She is free.

She dances and sings and makes merry in her being, blurring lines, crossing others. She has traveled these terrible roads before, discovering much, wishing for more, being left empty.

She discovers intimate places. Places where the electricity is so great she thinks it may end her. Words, touches, looks; and they have no knowledge. No, those people who feed her, nourish her, with words, stroke her with touch, pierce her with looks, they are unaware. Until they are not.

It meets the gypsy-soul girl where she feels she needs to be met. But she is a wretched soul and she cannot be allowed control; she cannot be trusted. It will not be favorable. It is not favorable. But words intrigue her and draw the gypsy girl in; touch ignites her; looks force air into her lungs. Soul eyes speaking to hers.

Then she remembers. What about the gypsy-soul girl’s home? Where is she now? What has happened to her? Has it happened to her, or has she allowed it, because deep within her where that gypsy-soul girl lives, she knows she is the most intimate she could ever be? Longing will never be a word strong enough, as if someone has reached into her very chest, grasped her heart and refuses to let go. Has she chosen to release her again because she, too, is a wretched soul? She is not good; they are neither good.

A good girl would stay committed and work to find the hidden treasures in what she already has. Gypsy-soul girls know nothing if not selfishness. There is no balance, only a reckoning. She must put away the gypsy and learn to mine for the treasures she cannot see. Surely then she will find contentment apart from this wretched soul. Certainly she will not have to be enveloped in the melancholy of her heart forever. Or, will she? She is unsure. And this unsuredness breeds discontentment.

The choice is hers and she must choose to put herself back on the road proper. She must choose what is good, and right, and expected. She must return the gypsy to her purgatory. For in doing so the hearts of the hidden treasures around her will be spared. And that is what is good, and right and expected.

Then surely she will mourn. She will mourn for what could have been breath to her living, dancing to her feet, laughter to her being. Instead she will learn, again, how to see in that dark cave, how to quietly hum the tune of her life with no ear hearing, how to appear beautiful though she is tortured. Her home will stand strong, as though nothing could come against it, even as the foundation splinters and the colors fade. Life is passing, and surely she will mourn.