I just want to quit.
I want to throw in the towel that holds my heart and toss it in the ring. I want to wave the white flag of memory and forget love and life. I want to take hope and shred it into confetti for a party where we know that dreams die, and all that we believe can die. I want to take faith as the traitor it is and see if it can rise from the grave beneath my solar plexus. I want to take my tears and wring them out so that I won’t have to feel the throb of grief. I want to bury all that I thought was true and let the birth of deception rip my pelvis open.
I want to empty my apartment of photos and let books be my best friends. I want to take all of my scarves and tie them into knots for all of the knots that I feel in my gut. I want to take all of my earrings that don’t match and crush them. I want to take the plates that were gifts, throw them on the floor, and dance on the shards of broken ceramic. Then, the blood would be real, and not the pathos of sorrow and loss that is my life.
I want to cuddle my kitties with the love that I thought I deserved. I want to write a letter to my mom and thank her for being who she is. I want to call my dad and bawl into the phone, and let him tell me that this too shall pass, because I know that he cares with all of his heart.
I will be alright.
I want to know that this will pass. I want to build a life based on all of the good things that we want: love, hope, faith and trust.
But, somehow along the way, I lost love with the winter wind. It blew away and left an icy frost. Hope ran to the dark side of the moon and I cannot feel her anymore. Faith rides like the headless horseman and bears a scythe to reap meaning from the gifts of now. And trust died on a promise that never should have been made.
But this shall pass. This too shall pass. And in the passing will come something I don’t know or see now. My only staff is my loyal Muse who helps me move from there to here and back again. My Muse has become my best friend, loyal companion and the only comfort I find when the night is young, my tummy is full, my kitties are asleep and the ache that is my breath wants to choke me. My Muse loosens the grip around my throat, lets a little air in, and I remember that I can choose what I want and how I live.
Yet some moments wield a blade only She can soften. For when she cuts, she chisels out what does not serve, and finds what shines, even when there is no light.
My Muse is my prayer, and I cannot own what I say, though I know that it’s mine. Truth works that way though, and sometimes mine is served on a plate of anguish.
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Editor: Rachel Nussbaum