Time is a labour of love

I can’t explain to anyone what happens to me when I meet someone from my past. I feel catatonic. If a jolt hit me I would still have some life, but seeing a person from my past kills me. The deeper into the timeline you go, the more horrific. Its so incredible, how quickly my mind transports itself into that cocoon. I can feel like I am back into that atmosphere of dread, surrounded by vultures and nothing else. I feel preyed on, I feel myself clawing to run away.

There are happy memories but the people who made them continue to be in my life. That is the biggest difference between me and most people, I have found. I am unable to sustain a connection that hurts me. As if I am afraid of feeling that sadness ever again. I have run away from those emotions and I have forgotten them. I often joke about how my memory is shit, its true, it is. I don’t remember much because I don’t want to. I don’t remember much happiness at all. And there is no reason to remember the sad or well, even the mundane.

It is difficult to live with my escapism because the world doesn’t let you escape. Its as if the motivations behind every mind’s connection to you are not just hidden, but self-serving in convoluted ways. Though I learnt how it felt to get beaten down by a convoluted mind early and I understood there was no reason to forgive them. There is no reason to build arguments and there is no reason to make excuses. And the only thing my mind does understand is reason and rhyme.

Its important to forget the sadness but not the trauma. So I use my simple words to make simple sentences, I define my trauma. I do it well. I make it bit by bit, slowly through pieces, I put it all together into this mosaic which becomes beautiful to look at. I do that. All by myself. I don’t find it heroic, I don’t find it gruesome. I find it laborious; exhaustion has become the only medicine for my unending awareness. But the labour is of love, of leaning into my pain and lifting away the hurt. It may seem deeply discouraging, it almost always does at the beginning. So if I can’t hold my own voice and turn it to raise myself, how can I use it to sing ballads to the sky?

If I never learnt to sing, what would I do? I don’t know. Singing is like imagining a sound and then creating it with your body. Like bringing a melody into existence. Like pulling through air an energy, quite literally, and releasing a force which spears it. There is no sound if there is no air, there is no life. A voice is truly like a weapon on silence, on the dead. And I know how to fight it, I always have.

When I meet people from my past, its sometimes as if death has gripped me, for some moments I really do lose consciousness. I live through an infinite sadness and it feels like the end until I find my courage and speak. Then its my voice that travels without me, starts often with a squeak. But then it sings. It pulls in air, loosens the grip. I hear myself, I realise I remember this song. I wrote it. It bellows, it echoes, it surrounds me. And there it is, my weapon.

Don’t push me. I had to live through misery so I know it well. I am not afraid of it, I am not wary. There’s nothing you can do to defeat me, there is frankly nothing to be undone. I recognise redemption, I recognise strength. I recognise cowardice as well. There is just no love in fear, and oh, I know love so damn well. Because when love does find me, there will be pain but the music will ring differently. And I know that song, I know it so well.


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