The morning’s misty clouds reach out to kiss my cheeks, but I resist their sweet embrace with a bratty snarl, turning towards the hurricane brewing inside my heart instead.
I want to crawl back under the covers and create a cave-like retreat from the world. I wish to burrow so far under the thickest, softest blankets and dream up my own world, where starry nebulae and silky puddles of stardust predominate.
Can’t I just step into the gauzy slippers of a never-ending fantasy?
Can’t I be consumed by strawberry flavored swirls of raw, pure-spun imagination?
Today, the world feels too harsh, and I, too sensitive.
I want to hide.
From life. From myself. From my feelings. From my duties. From my all-consuming to-do list. From every person I might encounter. From everything that could hypothetically happen or not happen.
Today, I don’t feel strong enough to engage in that big, bad world out there.
Today, I seem to be strung from tiny glass gossamer beads. I feel entirely see-through and thoroughly raw.
I fear that the slightest rude remark could rip me wide open, sending my heart’s contents spilling out onto the streets. I fear that simply looking into someone’s eyes could slay me, ending it all right there, a sudden death to this incredibly strange day.
My sensitivity is turned up to high heat, the hot blue flames raging with combustible emotional intensity that I’m not quite sure I can contain.
Every light is a thousand shades too bright. Every sound is amped up to maximum volume. Every feeling rattles in my stomach, clanking together so fiercely that it nauseates my overwhelmed soul.
I weep streams of stringy seaweed grief because on these gossamer days, I feel so small and vulnerable.
I fear I cannot inhabit life without falling apart.
So fall apart I do.
I wrap my arms around myself, rest my chin on my right shoulder and squeeze so tight. Salty tears come, splashing upon the shores of my gauzy, whisper-thin cheeks.
They rinse me, bringing crystalline clarity.
I catch a glimpse of this part of myself that is deeply ashamed of who I am. Of my emotionality. Of my sensitivity. Of my empathy.
This part is bitchy and impatient—she’s a compulsive control freak who cares mostly about getting things done. Rolling her eyes, she finds it just so annoying that I have to take extra-special care of myself sometimes.
And, it is tough, I don’t always know how to handle the spider web-like threads of my sensitive nature.
But, I don’t need answers, because my sensitivity isn’t a problem.
I need to sit with myself and become a proud puddle of whispering tears, a swirling ocean of foamy empathic energy, a fierce breeze of spinning emotional images.
I need to feel; I am made to feel.
So feel I do.
Feeling breathes life into me, births new galaxies inside my soul and inspires my heart to break open again and again.
I am renewed.
I take my hand softly and when I’m ready, I push my feet deeply into the ground, and let them grow dark red roots that reach all the way to the center of the earth.
I ground myself gently, but firmly as hell.
The day will sprout its own green leaves from here.
And, I will head straight into these fragile 24 hours. It may be a struggle. I may cry, hurt, break or bleed a little.
But, I will take that risk because I wish to be fully alive. I wish to taste all this life has to offer. No matter how raw, no matter how delicate or sensitive or uncomfortable.
I want it all.
I can handle it all.
I take my hand, give one last supportive squeeze, and dip my trembling toes in the buzzing aquamarine waters of life.
I shiver, but I smile, too.
The water sparkles.
Off I go; the electric current of life carries me now.
Author: Cindy A. Jones
Editor: Travis May
Photo: Flickr/ Allie Holzman
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