The wounded healer
The wounded healer believes
"I do not deserve to be happy, while the rest is suffering"
"I do not deserve to be in the light, while others are in darkness"
"I do not deserve to become conscious, while others are unconscious"
"I do not deserve to wake up, while others are still asleep"
The wounded healer chooses the healing of others above their own
While she’s not here.
Putting my words in shape on a computer feels kinda strange. Not gonna lie. Seems a little bit unnatural, you know what I mean? The physical touch and friction created by the pen and paper, powered by clumsy hands, brings something to it. Feels real. Here I am, justifying myself a million times. It's okay to change.
Changing…
Man, it's uncanny how quickly the wheels turn. But, if we are not putting meaning to things, are we really being affected by the drift? I reckon nothing makes sense without a deeper meaning. Does it though? Putting meaning to everything is exhausting. Stranded between the endless cycle of overthinking and over-attributing meaning to every gust of wind that slides by, I start to question whether meanings are really necessary; as well as labels.
Labeling something can easily be translated to putting a meaning to it. We find ourselves struggling with dullness when dwelling in the process of labeling. Should I really put a label on it or is it better just to move on and see where it is going to. How should I build something I don’t even know what it is? Let’s take love for example.
Yes, I know. Love. C’mon, on this first text I ought to be more original, right? But hear me out; I promise that it's temporary.
“Why do we have to label this? Let’s just see what happens.”
I’m pretty sure you are no stranger to this phrase. Whether you’ve heard it yourself or told it to someone else or even heard through others. When you are at the other end of this, a hasty thought pops out in your mind: man, maybe I should take things naturally. Feeling that labeling a situation turns you into a hostage to it. Or even, mentally, you are talking to a mirror and on the other side is a “cooler” more laid back version of yourself.
Who doesn’t wanna be cool?
So you comply with this thought, and struggle to see through the “let’s see what happens” mist. Here I am, using my index finger and my thumb to open my eyes wide, seeking what and where to look. But it’s ok, I’m sure she knows better. I may be old fashioned.
Maybe. However, all these words above come from a flickering pseudo-nihilist mind. For a long time I felt that meanings, not only weren’t unnecessary, but inexistent. I know. When you can’t hold your grip onto existence, meanings are hidden in an entanglement of distorted patterns. Don’t feel like I am losing focus, this is still about love.
It’s really hard to pin out what this feeling is, as it keeps changing. Sounds cliché but in reality, it’s fucking intriguing. Love is what you think love is. That’s why it is so screwed up. Love comes from abusive hands, from toxic mouths and judgmental eyes. Breathing toxicity is addictive. We always return to where it is safe.
Safe.
Safety is a precious state of inertia. Nothing moves unexpectedly. Smells like home. Deep cuts on my flesh, although gruesome, are familiar. The room ain’t pretty, but at least the door’s open. A poor dog returns wagging tail and wide-eyed after getting beaten by the hand that feeds it. We are no different.
She does know better.
Every pebble shines where we feel seen. His hand may be hard, but at least he knows my name. Oh, dear. I know it’s not all bad. Leave the door open and the lights on. I must make my way back. Wandering through the mist while sliding the tip of your fingers on the walls searching for the better exit. Let’s not get carried away.
We are humans, and intrinsically we are believers. Do not limit the concept of believer to religion. Our system of laws, society and money are only worth a shit because our pretty little hands are glued together praying for them. You love because you believe that it’s love.
Abused hearts can turn into trustful beings in a blink of an eye. All because of labels. They ignore time. It takes years to fully believe in somebody and roll on your back spreading your legs and offering your belly to another soul. Unless you call that person “love”. It doesn’t matter, when the relationship switch is up, it feels like you’ve known that person for ages. All your pain is safe with her, all your secrets are shared for you see a part of what you wanted in yourself in another person.
Calling her a my love allows her to pick my soul and gives her the key to doors that I’ve never opened before. Hours become days, days become years. Love is something that brings intimacy to the table. How could I not trust that person? I know I love her, why would she take me for granted?
At the same time, love cannot be a mere foot in the pool dipped to check the temperature. How can you carefully unscrew the cork and let love slowly drift in? 30 years have gone by fast. Can you ever catch up to who I am? Do you have to? It’s hard to look in loving eyes turning your neck to the past.
Maybe we do open our chest because we need to open a new door. It’s impressive, though, how relentless toxic internal patterns are. Like a moth into flame, we twist the knob and crawl into the old room. Whoever is there, hasn’t even finished wiping the blood off its hands.
Please leave the door open and the lights on, I may be back.
What Color Are You?
She woke up this morning looking gray. One look at Rosie, and you would think there was nothing to see today. But there is something— that gray isn’t too gray. I got closer, closer, and closer. The gray looked faded, faded and faded. I paused. Rosie is different now.
The sun is getting brighter. I looked at my watch, and it was 9 a.m. I looked up at the sun and thought about going for a walk. I looked back at Rosie, and she is green. I smiled. Maybe all Rosie needed was sunlight. Oops, I forgot to wear my eyeglasses. Ah! Rosie is always green.
By Yomika
Just Write
I write to make sense of it all. Letters pour from my mind like rain from the clouds, forming into words like puddles on the ground, filling page after page. Emotions crashing down like wave after wave.
I write to release it all. The tears that never seem to fall. A note that is genuine and raw. To say goodbye like a final call.
I write to remind me of it all. The memories that shaped me into who I am. The moments that broke me but helped teach me to stand.
I write because it's all I have. In love, in sorrow, in grief and in joy. Writing captures these moments and fills in each void. Organizing the noise. My symphony of choice.
Just Write
I write to make sense of it all. Letters pour from my mind like rain from the clouds, forming into words like puddles on the ground, filling page after page. Emotions crashing down like wave after wave.
I write to release it all. The tears that never seem to fall. A note that is genuine and raw. To say goodbye like a final call.
I write to remind me of it all. The memories that shaped me into who I am. The moments that broke me but helped teach me to stand.
I write because it's all I have. In love, in sorrow, in grief and in joy. Writing captures these moments and fills in each void. Organizing the noise. My symphony of choice.