word-purge - Tumblr blog

[word-purge]

What can I say that has not been said before? Said better, clearer, louder. Said with more reverberation.

Who am I to say anything worthwhile to you? Who am I but a haphazard reflection of all the things said to me, spoken and unspoken?

In another life, another universe perhaps, I’d have had the words. I’d have said what I meant and understood my own thoughts, and you’d sit and listen and carry a full heart and eased mind out the door. In another universe flowers bloom at night and I don’t seek comfort in the rain and you understand who I am and what I say.

But we were in this universe, and I didn’t have the right words to tell you I was sinking and it wasn’t scary, and that alone was terrifying enough to keep silent. We were in this universe where ceilings instead of floors are somehow overhead and you didn’t see me shrinking, you didn’t hear it when I burned and you didn’t see the shoe dropping.

What I mean is I don’t blame you for blindsided. In another universe, you know me so well words had never even been created between us. We communicate through living and our mingled breath is a veil in which no parts of us hide. But we were in this universe, and for me the words were so hard and the feelings so complex they couldn’t be communicated in any way but movement. Movement towards or away, movement in harmony or fractured stutters.

You needed words and I needed actions and therein lies the miscommunication. Now how do we say we’re sorry?

[word-purge]

“You can always come home”

You’ve heard the sentiment, right? It’s usually uttered by well-wishers before a journey—like a move to another city, a gamble on a venture, closing one chapter to start another. It’s such a heartfelt, tender peace offering made to those setting out into a great unknown.

I heard that phrase alot growing up, so much that I put an insane amount of stock into the idea that no matter where I went or how badly I messed up, it would be okay because home was waiting for me somewhere. That’s an amazing safety net to feel like you have, but I’m struggling now with realizing it’s a safety net that’s made with hazardous holes and trip wire. It’s there, and it could catch you in theory, but only if you land just right. Only if the wind isn’t blowing a certain way the day you finally need to use it. Only if you remain small and catchable.

I was 25 when I realized I couldn’t go home. I was somewhere in the desert, on a long stretch of road between Texas and New Mexico, and I had the sinking sensation of being homesick for something I couldn’t return to. Home for me had stopped being a place, or a set of arms, or a feeling. In that moment, I couldn’t go home because I had realized I had stopped having one.

That was a year ago now, and I’ve spent that time focused on giving myself a home. I’ve tried to build one materially, I’ve tried to love my body more so that it could be a home for my soul. I’ve tried to practice mindfulness and emotional healing to find a home in my consciousness. And what I’m finding is that maybe you can always go home, but it’s just that. The going. The saying isn’t that you can always find home, or count on home, or even know what the fuck the home is supposed to be. It’s just that you always have the ability to come to it.

So I’m going, going, going. It feels like I’ve been going home for years now. And although I haven’t reached it I find comfort in knowing it’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to come home at last.

[word-purge]

Word purge, vomiting prose, ridding the mind of sounds and thoughts and hopes and restless fears with reckless abandon.

One must feel so much nothingness to bear the thought of feeling. I feel but cannot bear the thought behind it. Why is that?

What becomes of one who craves a full heart? The gnawing hunger in my chest is ceaseless and cruel, so much like me. Do we become what we project? Or is that my true face in the mirror and it’s only my mind that wishes for a changed reflection?

Emily Dickinson once told me she could not stop for death so it kindly stopped for her. Why do I feel jealous she knew death as a friend? I should feel pity. Or horror. Should feel, should feel, should feel.

I lied before. I don’t feel but I feel I should.