my long road, my winding path, my end of the rainbow.

October 29, 2008 at 2:21am I can't put my finger on it, perhaps it's because I don't know this feeling. I mean I've experienced it once long ago, once more not so numb, and now.. it stings but I don't know what to do with it. I fear that's the problem. It's become a habit to take it, put it in a box, lock it down, and stash it where it can't be shaken. Although my key must be a copy..or my lock faulty, because these sounds, these smells, these moments.. it's like an earthquake- shake, rattle roll. Here I am again, Flash flood. Engulfed, taken, shaken. I have this feelings, this idea, this concept in the palm of my hand I just don't know where to put it or how to deal with it. I thought I knew, I grew callused, I took for granted. My castle walls are crumbling now. Take me back to a place where I knew, where I felt, where I loved. Take me back to a place where I could think, I could breathe, I could know. Take me back and let me start again. Let me explore this Wonder, this Mystery this idea without the tears. Is that even possible? Can you reach the penny at the bottom of the pool without getting wet? Is it possible to "know how you feel", without the feeling? Can you actually say I have walked that path, without the stains? I have this mist, this fog, this cloud that lingers about me, within me.. but I can't control my perception of it. It seems to shift and swirl just out of my reach. Part of me wants to turn on the fan, to clear this blinding presence, yet part of me wants to explore. Is there more to this debilitating state? I lock my box again, push it under my bed, out of reach, out of sight.. out of mind- right? The dust grows thick now. I can trace my memories onto the lid, pushing it down even farther. hiding it under layers of "other". There is a new, well not new, but another trinket in my palm now- it makes me numb, it is numb. I can think on this other feeling now and not be so caught up in it, so engulfed by it. I can push my box further, slap another lock on it now. I have this new bandage, this new patch, this new shield that helps me think less about my curious other palm dweller. Now the days can move forward, The nights can grow shorter, the air can grow clearer. Occasionally my other little friend will tap on the door, but I have grown to know it less, it's face is less clear to me now- my numb friend has blurred the lines. I have forgotten about my box. It's been so long since I have been shaken, since my lock has been picked, since I've reminisced amongst the warm lining. It knocks again, and this time I am curious. I peer out, step out, reach out now but I can't find the one who used to mingle about my senses. I can't find that old feeling, that old emotion that old...friend. I can't seem to find my box, my once long ago, my once more not so numb and my new sting. I have found I yearn for it now, I cry for it, I seek it out. I have checked all sides of my hand but my unknown has vanished. I want so badly to return to my prior state, the numb place is no longer where I long to be. The numb one is no longer who I want to dwell in my palm. So I sit, I write, I seek out my box. The mattress is flipped, the floor boards heaved, the walls ripped bare. I find myself thinking, wondering, remembering even. With every thought, every smell, every moment I sting, but this time it is welcomed, sought out, captured even. my box! I have found it again- amongst the dust, the debris, the rubble. I peer down at the outlines of memories, they swiftly they are swept away. I can see my box clearly now. The locks deemed useless from so little use, instead are torn off, demolished, tossed betwixt the remnants of my bedroom. The lid has been opened. I have found my once long ago! My once more not so numb! And my sting! On my palm dwells my something, my somehow, my somewhere. I have vowed now never to lock it away again, never to find another dwelling on my palm, never to decide what shouldn't be decided. I have found now that my little once was, will be and always has is something that should always dwell, not on my palm- because that is juvenile- but in my heart; where no manner of locks, of weather, of dust or of numbness can veil it.

Taren MarounComment