Between a Grind and a Hard Place
Claude Monet picked a permanent residence where he was surrounded by constant inspiration and created endless, timeless amounts of beautiful pictures. He cared only for the expression that this gift of a place created inside of him. I understand being so wrapped up in a world of perfection that you forget how forsaken the death of a safe place will be. When I look outwards, I see the beauty in everything that is and can be, combining each unique color to create something so unrealistic, yearning to be captured and capable. I wish I would turn that scope inward to give myself that same dedication I give everything else.
It is a year later and I am going through the same motions. I thought I told myself that I deserved better. I was so careful too, but I decided to trust my feelings rather than logic again. Stupid, stupid girl, did you forget that combining opposite coolness and warmth will only lead to natural disaster; inevitably leaving everything scattered and destroyed? At least now only one pillow is tear-filled, as compared to last September when the one which stifled my sobs to keep my roommate asleep now takes up the deserted side of my bed. There is now an echo which was not there before, reminding me of my standstill mistakes.
Feeling like you’ve made so much progress just to realize the only thing keeping you from breaking into a million pieces is the last ounce of strength you kept from the day, wound in your favorite stuffed animal, clutching and breathing into its safety. It is not alive, yet it holds so much feeling. They cannot leave me if I am the one who marks their belonging, their purpose.
By now you’d think nine years would be plenty of time to grow indifferent to the hurt of those themselves who are hurt, but your heart has grown even more to hold what pain others unintentionally give you. Where is the evidence that things truly happen for a reason, or if someone is meant to be in your life they will? I am so tired, but being cynical is so much worse for my vitals than taking the days step-by-step. I do not understand why people do bad things and I do not understand why I cannot accept that as a rite of life, kicking my feet at anything that gets too close for comfort.
I know the answer to this solution, but I do not know how to undertake the responsibility of testing out this formula, all of it’s uncertainty still uncalculated. I need to gift my trust, open myself up authentically, and feel like I can depend on others, because that will keep me constant, unaffected by the spiral brought on by the names, photos, or memories. This hurt is so debilitating to what I crave the most, devotion. I want my safe places to feel safe again, away from any negativity that might turn it into a nightmare. My dreams are filled with writhing pain; I cannot escape to sleep anymore:,(. The Arctic seems to be a place for the vast, cold, and vacant, undisturbed and formidable to hole the split in my chest with ice. I feel paralyzed with the hurt I feel, unable to stand and attempt to better the pain with much-needed help, so I will make do with the floor. One year later I have learned that being held by what makes me cold consequently tires my ambition; it is a wonderful escape. Time spent down here will always bring me towards aspiring goals, newfound love, and inspiring dreams which await me, currently hidden and waiting to be brought into my light. They are frozen, slowly thawing in each hot tear I dispel.
I cannot be in these places now filled with hurt, confusion, deception, and anger. I refuse to be a person who acts through these feelings. I am selfish in that I cannot lie because there is nothing I hate more than having a guilty conscience. The truth always comes to the surface, slicing through any layer built to keep it doormat. Do I use this tactic to move on even though it may cause the most painstaking realizations I have yet to face? It has been nine years since I first questioned why people intentionally hurt others, and it has taken me nine years to ask myself why I feel the need to take everyone else’s hurt onto my own heart. It is my mission to create comfort out of what is so damaging; it does not matter to me if we switch places or feelings.
I am what I think everyone else sees, but I am also what I say and do. Why do some things have to change while others never will? The law of human foundation is one of survival, but where we find shelter is a bit more complicated. When it does rain, I step into the storm to feel it on my skin because even the earth goes through cycles of build-up and release; where else would all these feelings go if there was no more space for them? I wonder if the absence of any of her creations is why she cries; this weight off of my shoulders should feel freeing, but its absence distorts my entire painting of what once was and the process of creating what should’ve been. It is taxing always trying to keep up with the changes to your scenery, planting, growing, and nurturing for it to die before its beauty could have even begun. It is heartbreaking that what was once on display must now be encased, frozen from any hope.
