You’re sitting in front of me, playing with your hands, agitated and tender.
You’re gazing at my old book shelf with your nervous blue eyes, shifting back and forth, reading the titles—yet noticing none of them.
You’re confused by the games your world is playing: on the lookout for a happier soundtrack, for lighter days.
The moment you’re experiencing right now may be difficult. May feel unbearable. May feel like you fell and never quite managed to get up again. They say it’s better to die standing than live a lifetime on your knees, but you’re doing exactly that: living a life that keeps turning in circles with no exit, no development, no love—but only dizziness left.
You are strong—but weak right now. In fact, this moment is not a matter of strength or weakness, it’s purely an uphill climb with a heavy backpack full of stuff you might needed once or twice, but you don’t need it anymore. It’s a matter of persistence and letting go.
I’m here for you during this seemingly endless struggle, during wars fought in- and outside of yourself, during moment after moment of a nervous freefall. Don’t get me wrong, I want to guide you, and I will.
You may wish your hand to be held through all of this—through trying and giving up, anxiously awaiting a moment that might never happen: true surrender. The heaviness lifted off of your shoulders.
There are people who would hold your hand. Through all of this.
They’re oftentimes holding hands because they want their own hands to be held, to feel needed, they’ll stretch and bend and bow just to make you feel better—when in fact, for now, there’s no place called “better”. I, too, am guilty of this sometimes. It’s an inevitable act by my ego to draw strength from another person’s difficulties—if I’m not making an effort to be conscious of my egos ways.
I can’t reassure you I’ll never be guilty of an ego trap again, but for now, I’ll tell you this: I won’t hold your hand no matter what.
I’ll only hold your hand only if I feel like I have presence to give. Own strength to draw from. And most importantly: the ability to sit with you in the dark with no intention of pulling you out into the light.
The light, as tempting as it may be, is not our goal, because the darkness is our in-the-moment-teacher.
You can do this all by yourself. You’ve always had the wisdom in you. You’ve always been your best guide. You’ll have to learn this for yourself, for lessons cannot be taught through other people. They come from within the tiny red vessels of your heart.
I, too, will learn my lesson by letting you discover your trust in who you are and what you can bring to this world.
As ego-less as I can, I’ll tell you this:
I can see your light.
You can do this all by yourself, but I’ll still hold your hand.
I vow to guide you as good as I can, even if that means to leave you in the dark.
I can provide a tender space in my heart for your hurting soul—but I won’t bend nor bow whilst trying erase your struggle.
I’ll follow alongside your tracks and leave you with my final words:
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