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Would you understand if I said that I had dropped out of my soul?
Would you understand if I said I don’t want to be this way, in this mind, in the cage that traps me, yet I’m not a wing-clipped bird?
Would you retreat, if I said that my mind is too messy—too many boxes without lids, so much undone, so much left to stare at, muddle through, too much that needs sorting out?
I need order; I need lists; I need space in my head, but not for the things that don’t exist.
My past comes to haunt me. It smudges the lines between then and now.
The past comes to haunt when I’m trying not to think, but somehow it breaks through to my consciousness, taps away at me, picks at me, irritates me, and shouts at me until I run. And with my eyes closed, I run until I can no longer hear.
Running gives me so much to aim for, so much to look forward to, focus on, and focus is what’s required. Focus achieves. Bad memories from the past do too, but not when I don’t want them to.
Not when I don’t want to relive, realize, or reflect, not if I don’t want to look in that mirror anymore.
So, I’ll just wait. I’ll wait for the sweet voice that whispers—the voice that beckons me into the light.
It doesn’t shout of the vitriolic past until I can’t hear anymore.
The voice that I love is the voice that I like to hear. It is the soft, sweet voice of the future. It is so bright that it blinds and deafens me all at the same time.
It is the voice that welcomes me with open arms. It is the hand on my shoulder, which calms me. It makes me patiently wait and makes me realize that I am still here, I’m still me, I’m still locked in that cage, but I can release myself; the lock was on the inside all along.
So, tomorrow, I will fly.
I will soar, but, for now, I will imagine the air on my face; I will imagine the sounds, the smells, the sensory awareness that consumes me as I look down upon all that has tried to keep me down and keep me contained.
Tomorrow, I will be free.
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