All I’ve ever hated, all I’ve ever fought, is inside of me. It never went any further than that. Everything that somebody else did to push my buttons, make me mad, it all has a ring of familiarity. Those thoughts I wrestle, all sanctimonious and proud, are the ones that are mirrored in what I see as wrong.
It pulls and hurts and knots me up inside, leaves me wondering, what’s the point? How can this be healed? How can we, how can I, step beyond this? Learn to accept, learn to change? Who is the teacher? All the good ones seem to be locked in the past, chained by dogma, obscured by the parts of me, parts of us, that are afraid to die, afraid to let go, afraid of the pain of change.
But pain is what keeps us here, it’s familiar and known, it won’t get us when we least expect it, or will it?
Isn’t it happening anyway? We are all becoming- becoming something. Growing, healing, hurting, crying, laughing, being.
It’s what we are, it’s what we do.
So, this is the comfort of pain, knowing it’s a sign of growth.
And that itching, gnawing, aching is the feeling of skin restitching itself into scars that map the journey to here and now.
I am this sensation, this space in which to occur.
Road maps don’t show what is, they show what was, a moment frozen and stretched through time.
