Garden of Chains

girl-in-chainsMy own defense mechanism has kicked into second gear. The rescue of every screaming nerve is coming by way of human numbness.  The alarms are going off and for my own survival it will quiet the deafening sirens by pouring a thick glaze over every emotion, giving me a momentary soundness of mind.  I can take a breath now. The exhale is sweet and loosens the muscles that are wrapped in fear and as I scratch the walls of my shallow lungs, clinging with each nail from every fingertip, I brace for the courage to take another inhale.

My body is the weight of a thousand chains but the melody continues to play; “Keep going, keep moving, nothing is final”. Every wise teacher has sung a verse and every book has whispered this identical song over and over again but what do they know of life sentences of sorrow? I want to know if the trials they speak of were just broken down cars and torrid relationships or were they more than that. I need them to be more. If they are more, I smell hope and I will pull out my last dollar and make a solid purchase in this sale. I need them to be more so I can have one small sliver, one tiny ounce of inspiration that I can not only survive, but I can thrive in all living hells.

I am coherent to the ownership of this wisdom as nature silently reenacts the message. It is told through the ability of the stars shining in complete darkness of a night and when hollow rooms of loneliness are illuminated by the moon and her ability to sneak blue crystal beams through the cracks of its broken windows. I see the magic of nature and I consume the lessons, yet some days I still retreat back to the vacant playgrounds of doubt. My faith gets carried away by disturbing shadows and is escorted to heavy cellars below. How is it I can offer endless trays filled with a variety of encouragements and love to others when some days I cannot even offer myself a small sampling from that very same buffet? Perhaps it’s because I am still human. Imperfect, shattered and used.

I am fascinated by the most beautiful of strangers who have been diagnosed with diseases, with cancer and with tragedies that have forever altered their lives. They understand what it’s like to live a life you didn’t choose and they’ve felt sorrows woven so deep. As I turn the dial and peer through their lenses I uncover salvation and companionship. Were they the song writers? I need them to be. Give me the souls who have braved past their white picket fences, the ones who have met dark energies that have emerged from alleys after midnight, faced the ugliest of trials and were force fed betrayal. They know truths most do not. They’ve been tested and can lick the wounds of survival from their paws with an iron gaze.

I cannot hold conversations with the average Joes anymore. Sometimes I wish I could, but the passport of my soul wasn’t stamped with that this time around. This time around I am tethered and torn and cannot speak common place, I’m stuck full throttle through forces of deep and unfathomable annihilations.  I have told the stories of the most famous of my trials, yet there are still the untold ones growling inside me. The memory of old scripts continue to release from the crown of my head and what is left is the silent free fall of fears to spiral down the drain pipe of my throat and collect in a heap of anxiety along the floor of my stomach. My gut is embezzling energy from countless sources.

Give me my soul mates, the outcasts and the disasters. They have found a well of indestructible being and I am ready to drink from that source. Hand me the map that leads to their private beach of inner compassion because my compass is broken in that direction.

“The world doesn’t owe us anything. It is we who owe the world a different reflection than the one that’s hurting us. We are the mirrors. We are the living labs where creative change starts to takes place. Nobody else can save us, but ourselves” ~Andrea Balt

In this garden of chains, I will find my own salvation. Because when I want to crawl into the hollow chamber of my own inner jail, I will recite the creed of the ones that have come before me. The ones I know have colored the sky with their pain in fire and see in a layer most others don’t even know exists. I am ready to taste the metal in my mouth, my teeth will saw and my flesh will bleed to break free.

“You don’t need an answer” says my heart. “You already feel the answer”.

Give me the space again, that lands between my inhale and my next exhale. It is eerie and desolate, haunting at times. Hesitation invites my own suffocation but something lifts my chin up. Raising my heavy eyes I will turn and face the mirror, again.  This time I feel it, the whisper that I am not alone. There are decades of souls before me and around me who know my pain. And there are troops of them with harder battles than mine. I see them, staring back at me through this mirror. No more time can be wasted as I churn the misfortunes into waves of golden fire. I will use my hand to smear the paint of warriors before me across my face. Let it brush deep lines under my mouth and cast black tears from my eyes down my cheeks and across my chest. Vibrant reds will run along my forehead as I take the urge to shatter the glass into a million pieces aside, so I can stare into the depths of this anger and see them all. We are one. This is the light, natures’ salvation laughing and yelling at me, through me. The force that pushes me down, pulls under my armpits and lifts me up and waits for me to brush off the dirt as I come to stand.

Even in the burning kindle of silence I will find her, my soul, buried under the wreckage of human tissue, a history of broken bones and scarred skin. She deserves a flood of water for her growth and deep down she continues to sing the song;  “keep going, keep moving, nothing is final”. I call out to the black birds to return hope back to me, carry it on their wings and deliver into the darkest of human shells, my dark human shell.

Oh warrior heart, be my compass as I ground down through my feet, I lengthen through my spine and I point my chin to face the sun. I won’t cheat myself today and I will listen more. This vibration is pulsing through each chakra and wings are breaking under the blades in my back. For that song being sung isn’t just the song of strangers, I know now it’s a melody that has been sewn between us, for us, within us. It’s my own soul singing, speaking through these threads, trying to make its way back to me. It’s simply begging to turn all that human sorrow into a nutritional source of compassion, but it can only be delivered in one direction; inward. What a gift to be given, for the mastery of it will lead to the chorus of unconditional love.

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