Beauty in the Deep

I want to be heard and not seen

[wildfirebones-blog]

the box

I like old people. They have a quality that’s missing in the rising generations. They don’t fear The Box as we do. I feel like we have become hopelessly basic in our efforts to achieve originality. 

As children we try hard to stay inside the lines. As teens, who crave recognition for individuality, we push outside the lines with pride and defiance! That usually results in the kind of mess that SHOULD pull us back into the box for a while, where we can continue practicing things like balance and boundaries, dimension and texture. 

After the basics have become intuitive for us, by all means, let’s explore! 

        CREATE! 

                Craft our one-of-a-kind masterpiece! 

But this cultural obsession with living “outside the box” has spawned a generation of scribblers. Maybe we should all spend more time in the tried-and-true. Maybe the structure there has more to offer than the world would have us believe.  

[wildfirebones-blog]

the source

Have you ever seen a sponge that’s been baking in the heat for so long that it starts to discolor, crack, and even disintegrate?

That’s me right now. And my family is the rain.. 

I’m fearful and uncertain about my future. Knocked to my knees by feelings of loss. Of isolation. Of grief. Depleted to the point of spiritual and mental bankruptcy. Going home to my family brings instant temporary relief, but I can’t keep them with me all the time! I am only here visiting them for a few days, and then I have to go home, alone.

I need my rain to come from a source that never leaves me. One that is without limitation or restrictions of any kind. It’s time to revisit my relationship with God.

[wildfirebones-blog]

[wildfirebones-blog]

[wildfirebones-blog]

[wildfirebones-blog]

war paint

It’s happening again. I can feel it pulling at my insides with the weight of a cement truck. I tell myself I don’t want it; that I deserve better. But I’m lying. I want it more than anything, and not even the certainty of devastating consequences will dissuade me from my course.

I’ve done a masterful job cloaking my true nature from the world. The life I’ve made has no space for darkness. I know I am capable of remarkable things, and I would surly be crushed by the wave of disgust that my friends and family would wash over me, if they knew my true desires.  But the fact is, when the curtain goes down, I am a black soul. 

So here I stand. Frozen in indecision and resentment. Wearing sincerity like war paint on my face.

[wildfirebones-blog]

[wildfirebones-blog]

She watches as I put the finishing touches on my look;

        a failed attempt 

                to mimic the sparkle and color of my former self.

The pretty face of the woman on the other side of the glass looks

                        DISTORTED

by the sickening combination of over-indulgence and starvation.

                        The distortion rights itself when I apply my poker face;

                the one I’ll keep firmly in place until I find a moment alone,

        where I can safely react to the constant PAIN of my insides 

peeling off and crashing like rubble to the pit of my stomach.

NO ONE CAN KNOW.

[wildfirebones-blog]

She lay alone

       feeling him on the other side of the room

   Slightly detached.  Safely numb.

Slowly, as if in a dream, she traces the delicate line of her own youthful lips, and marvels at the power that lives in even the softest touch.

In her mind’s eye she sees his face.

Her fingertips travel down her throat, over her breast, and on toward the curve of her hip, awakening the passion that months of neglect had forced into dormancy.

Her breath quickens.

       Her body hums.

               And for a moment her heart is wide open to him.

She calls his name.

       Vulnerable. Defenseless.

She offers the purest form of her love for him. That love shines from her like candlelight, bringing a glow to her skin and a brightness to her eyes.

He turns to her.

       Then turns away.

               Extinguishing that flame with one dismissive wave of his hand.

Time seems to freeze as she feels the icy fingers of rejection clawing fresh wounds into her exposed soul. The blood that once ran hot and eager becomes as mud in winter.

Another lonely wait. Each explosive, lurching movement of the clock is a chisel that tears through her.  

                Stabbing.

         Throbbing.

The hole in her chest, expanding.

A crushing sadness makes each breath an heroic act. She curls her knees tightly to her chest, creating a barrier between her fragile heart and the cool indifference of the empty sheets beside her.

Sinking deeper and deeper. 

        Turning colder and colder.  

                Yearning to be slightly detached.  Safely numb.

[wildfirebones-blog]

into the deep

Everywhere I go, I feel so incredibly visible. I want to let my thoughts pour out without the distraction of body and face. I just want to be someplace where I can be heard and not seen.