2.7
March 14, 2018

I had infused you with a Fragrance called “Greatness”—but you weren’t really Wearing that Scent.

The Crush of Soul Pain.

Sunlit bamboo and peacock feathers populate my view.

Green parrots chirp, and my heart sings. At every curve in the road, there are turbans of passersby and traffic to test one’s patience. And in my cupboard, there are exotic teas and spices, a misarranged melody of flavors.

I tell myself that worthy people have these, and blue coffee mugs.

My heart is living here, but it also occupies “there” and maybe a bit of everywhere—a duality without sufficient border control. It’s a multidimensional, complex existence that confuses the heart and confounds the soul. It’s the place between security and uncertainty.

And, there is sadness. Between the gaps of lies and the hope of truth, sometimes caught in the story of two, I had infused you with a fragrance called “greatness”—but you weren’t really wearing that scent.

So I sat in the delusion of my own making.

The muck of new beginnings is wretched. Words and actions are held hostage by the disparate options of progress and refusal. It is like the train in Darjeeling: encased in romantic mist, but lacking a clear view. So much pain is birthed in silence. But really it’s not about you; it’s about everything. It’s the interwoven karma of crushing souls.

It’s the all-consuming ache that far exceeds the sting of a minor heartbreak. It’s a whole kaleidoscope of woe. It’s the web of tears woven from history, from one more rejection, from one more school shooting, from one more failed friendship. It’s the gritty, coarse edges of a social fabric that continues to fray, the pain a doctor cannot sufficiently diagnose.

No single person can wring out all the tears in a required love-hug, for the renewal of sadness is the admission fee for existence on this earth.

How does one heal soul pain? Is it with sage smudging rituals and calling on all the gods? Because I’d gladly let divine intervention to take center stage—please. The anguish of having our voices marginalized and our lives trivialized isn’t what we had in mind. The excruciating juncture of love greets fear, and love doesn’t seem to be leading this tango dance. Where is the off ramp from overwhelm? And why are there no damn directions?

Maybe simplicity is the solution. To be a green pot or a glass vase—something that holds only lovely things, unlike the despair arming my heart. A vase shining in sunlight, flowers on display, renewed when no longer vivacious and fresh.

I want a similar replacement. A new pot. Change the vase. Amend the social paradigm. Delete you. Why is the starting point for everything instigated by the crossing of two paths?

In this collision, poised between the ludicrous and the mundane, there is a vision of a weary man pulling baggage on an overloaded rickshaw. He is enveloped in the raucousness: the riot of horns and the onslaught of others. Slow and steady, he makes his way. And in this existence of resilience, shattered souls require rest. There is refuge in elusive joy and the anticipation of charmed connection.

And yet, we seem to be running on fumes. It seems the only way to keep soul pain at bay and buoy the eternal flame of life is to down the rejuvenation elixir that’s core ingredients are optimism and courage.

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Author: Jolie Carey
Image: Gypsie Raleigh/Instagram
Editor: Callie Rushton
Copy Editor: Travis May

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Jolie Marie Carey