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Aside

It’s all passing by.   Temporary.  Nothing timeless,  but not limited by or ruled by the guidelines of time either.

So how can I let them know me?  Curious as to how many times I’ve done this before.  Kept out others.  What is brave in that?  All of the strength I used in building the impenetrable wall around me, I could have spent finding the dark places.  The spaces I don’t always want to visit myself.  Remembering.  But I remember so little of it.  Just plowed right through it all and called myself a survivor.  But what did I survive if I never felt the experience?  If I was too busy thinking ahead to put energy into yesterday?  But in my mad rush for the next adventure, i missed the opportunity to come back to myself.  To recognize myself in  the mirror.  For my body to again match my spirit.  For my soul to recognize its mission.  But instead, I ran to some finish line that never existed.  And with those experiences, went my memories.  My stories escape me.

If I could swirl back around and travel the path one more time, I’d stick around more.  I’d pick a spot after a troublesome day and sit with it all.  I don’t know that I’d change much.  The trials were meant to be felt.  I have to believe they still created me.

I wish I had taken more time to ease into this truth.   But I did as with everything else, I jumped into it.  But this time, I vowed to be with this truth.   Feel what needed to be felt and be with the story until it told the hidden details of itself.

I was told that I am too closed by someone I spent half my life with.  I used to feel he didn’t know me at all.   He argues I never let him.   I believe this to be my truth.   I didn’t.   I knew him.   I need to know everyone I get close to.   I want to know their stories without offering mine,  to see their soul and judge their intentions.   I wear emotions like a necklace for everyone to gaze at, yet my words stick in my throat.  My truth is mine and shared with so few.  And so little shared with the rest that it’s nothing more than an image that they thought they may have seen.  Nothing more than a half story drawn in the sand.

Drawn in the Sand