It really is an art, isn't it? Letting go. Allowing slip whatever it is what we hold wide eyed and white knuckled, cradled to our chest. I feel as if my whole life has been a lesson in this. In letting go. People. Expectation. Ideas. Self. All good, and all a threat to my healthy human existence should I tighten my grasp.
Letting go. A million unshed tears launch themselves mercilessly at the back of this colorfully, carefully, mosaicked wall of my cement eyes. They threaten to explode outward shattering the lenses in which I view this world, my reality, but years worth of lessons in this - what was it? - letting go, render their attempt futile. They remain strangers to freedom, captive in pleasantville.
Within me is peace like a slow moving river. Gentle to the eye, and powerful beyond reason. I know that this path was mine from before light ever weaved its way into the fabric of my flesh. I know this is right, this is needed. I see my fingers fall slack with knowledge, but I am immobile in the face of growth.
My human form feels laden with sand. My stagnancy has brought both beauty and disease. The thought of movement is like lightning in my soul. I feel alive, and yet I fear.
Fear. That which slows my heartbeat to an almost unrecognizable, inaudible thump within my now frail chest. Cobwebs tickle my nostrils with the flux of breath. I've been here too long. I've been here far too long.
I fear, still, but my desire for fresh air is greater. My pale skin from attic-sitting, hiding, will only grow firm and bronze and strong should I step into the light. I will test my strength in these coming days. I will leave fear gagged and bound, drowning in the silence of it's lies.
I cannot expand should I stay locked and motionless in this monotone jungle of thought and self-judgement. I have to release myself-- and then I realize, perhaps it's not solely about learning to let go of what is outside of me, but of letting go of myself.