Tuesday, October 7, 2014

my heart is as open as the sky

Maya: Knowing love, I can allow all things to come and go, to be as supple as the wind and to face all things with great courage.My heart is a open as the sky. Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love (1996)

There’s that moment when the iron bands around your heart break, and you finally feel light on your feet again. It’s unexpected and you are surprised by the feeling of liberation and freedom. For so long, you’d felt weighted down and you knew why, but there was nothing you could do about it. Everything just felt heavy and hopeless, and you were lost.

You still feel this way in the morning, too hot because of the heat, but knowing it’s cold out there, so reluctant to crawl out into the darkness, because the weather has turned, and now you are always up before the sun. If you had your way, you wouldn’t be up at all. The cold makes your skin constrict; combined with the persistent night, the only thing you feel is tired.

If only you could close your eyes again, but all you have then are weird dreams.

You trip around in the dark, reluctant to turn on the lights, because lights on mean there is no going back to sleep. When the light switch is finally switched, your eyes immediately hurt. It’s in this moment you can believe that light is a physical thing as it stabs you in the flesh. After a few blinks, the moment passes, but you are still cold and the dark is hovering at the edges.

When you were younger, you were afraid of the shadows and the secrets hidden there. Rationally, you know there is no such thing as monsters, but the real terror comes when you are outside, walking in the snow under the moon, which is casting a thousand dark shadows across your path, and the only sound is the crunch of your boots in the frozen snow and the anxious breath you keep expelling, hoping you’ll make it where you want to go before the shadows produce something monstrous that will hurt you.

It takes you years of perspective to realize that the monsters are the ones sitting at the table opposite of you, the kids you go to school with, the people you trust(ed). But it doesn’t matter --you’re still afraid of the shadows and the cold and the night and the smell of your own fear, which is oddly damp.

Inside your mittens, your hands are sweating and a bit of ice from your shallow breaths are clinging to your soft yet scratchy scarf. Someone knitted these things for you; someone who hurt you.

Regarding Object Writing http://www.spencermichaud.com/2012/10/songwriting-101-writing-from-experience.html#.VCLC4RY2Xct

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