How many times have I heard my voice in my mind saying "your fault"?
Many.
Name the times I went over the words "I messed up...again" in my mind?
Many.
The default sensation that I wasn't good enough, could've done better?
Many.
Maybe the discomfort of wishing you were different or had done things differently?
Many.
Why?
I've lived amongst those that breathe through, for, and with shame. Feeling shameful, just shameful.
I inhaled the air thinking it was fresh but became stale as it entered my lungs. Apologizing for exhaling.
I felt unworthy, deservingly isolated, with the obscure thought that maybe if I was not here things would be better, or easier.
I recognize the punishing monologues that crush you to the ground, where even silence is unbearable.
It's not eternal, and it's not doom.
No one is doomed, no matter how true you might feel it so.
Every single living creature has the seed of being art--the best it could be.
Where best is just "being you".
I now listen to the hymn of beauty and light, and believe in my strength. No one taught it to me, I discovered it, for it is my song and before me no one has sung it.
Worry not.
Be not afraid.
Fear not.
Fear lives like ice: within cold, freezing, bitterly chilly lands. A little light, warmth, and it will drain and drip through your skin.
The seed of your best. It lives, and will be the last thing to extinguish and abandon you.
Forgive yourself, and smell like flowers.
Read ahead:
Struggling to sit down and writing. Getting distracted by others, by just doing "things"--whatever they may be. But truly and deeply is being distracted inside, having this quivering feeling, close to some strange kind of fear, about the idea of sitting down and writing.
Writing my thoughts, my feelings, fearing that the words on this page were tiny blades and cuts that will split my veins open and pour my blood out. With no intention of gore images, I think that every once in a while it's good to let the blood flow and dye a stale surface.
In a world where the should's and must's are so hurtfully embedded, where the boundaries and limits are so finely delineated, and the free unjustly crucified...here I stand, turning the wheel towards the opposite direction.
Feeling and desiring is so human and beautiful. Holding and embracing is so delicately exquisite. The touch of skin so deliciously worthy.
There are many things that I run across that shake me to the bone: a dad holding the hand of his son as they cross the street, the joyful dance of my niece as she seems me walk through the door, an elderly couple sitting in a bench holding hands as they look at each other.
In the language of love there are many things I don't understand, that I haven't experienced yet (and maybe I never will), but one thing I know is that I believe it is not a privilege. It does not pertain to some and not all. It is not a reward for some kind of proper behavior, or that we are given certain love tokens which expire or run out.
The true feeling of being in love, is what I believe in, live for, work for and fight for.
Great demonstrations of strength are born from the spark of love. Love creates energy, love pumps blood, love vibrates skin, and pulses heart.
- Fía.
