The tension stagnates, hangs like a demon in the air around me. Its long penetrating fingers pierce my body, cutting through flesh and then bone, all the way to my core. A dark sticky residue lingers in the open wounds of my throat and stomach, were the tension pierced so deep, moves towards my neck. Into my shoulder muscles, pulling them taught, then swelling in my ears and filling my forehead. It clogs my thoughts, like fatty arteries, the heaviness and pain. I feel sick. As I reside further into my body, I search in panic to find the some safety of a passing memory or pervious world, I fail and I shake. I shake deep and throughout, every cell in my body reacts, every one wants out, anywhere, anywhere but here.
I open the window, clear the air.
When your barriers came down that night, the light inside was free. As a spring morning sunrise after endless half-woken winter sleep. You swept away the pain and worry, all that binds and blinds you from who you could be, waking up parts deep within. A warm, soft, radiating light remained, a subtleness resting on the soul.
You close the curtains again, fight against the new rising day. To dwell again in the darkness, with whom you found mercy so long ago.
When we see our world, there are always signs that tell us things. Who we are and where we’ve been, what we want and sometimes, what we shall see. An deeply fundamental and inner sense of divination cast by the way everything is. It’s our nature to attempt to find answers from outside to within.
Some see it in the clouds, woven patterns looming high up in the sky, others in the wind and its companions that fly. Some in puddles, with stones skimming across the lake, and others in the hymns chosen before their wake.
We all seek an element, a superstitious past, and we all seek the future, to know the things that die and things that last. An adaptation of everything is the way we all see, and rearranging our worlds helps us find who we shall be.
Inherent in our nature is a desire to dream. I dream of different future, as strange as that may seem.
The puzzle of barriers, wall, fortifications. The deep foundations offering protection from the harsh winter weathering of fears, worries, guilt and deceit.
But as the walls protect the soft, helpless and beautiful creature within from darkness and fear, they obscure the light. Locked up for your own protection, caged by the fear of the very fears you protected yourself from.
Never to see the morning light, the storms of emotion flowing between everyone outside your solitude. Never to feel fresh cold rain on your face, washing and renewing lost and dormant feelings neglected in the corner of your prison. You are left with the rough stone walls as companions, cold, passive, dead.
You have body, but refuse to dwell, to be with it. Tucked into small pockets and corners, you find yourself peering over the fortifications erected so long ago. Your enemies have gone, long died out and dissipated in the restless passing of time, but you are frozen. The deep foundations and heavy stone walls are what you have left, the ghosts and echoes of your tormentors. They are your open wounds, never left to heal.
You have become the tortured and torturer, the prison and prisoner. You sit waiting for the end, your liberation to nothing, your return to dust, your death.