Now is not a good time for writing, but here I sit in my ready position, damning the tears that dare to well and the institution...and the war...and the whole fucking thing. I lack the capacity to hold it all in - IT'S NOT WHO I AM! My walls are just not that thick. They just aren't.
[for better or worse]
I talk a lot. I don't like following the grain. I share myself - the joys and fears of this life that I lead. I am not...[a number of things]. I write a lot. I drain the feelings that would otherwise sink me, an emotional pneumonia that would snuff out the fire. I know her, the body trapped beneath water, eyes fixed on its surface, watching the shimmer of sun fade. I cannot, will not ever be her again if I can help it.
Desperate is the search for a true outlet, for a reason to back away from the ledge - someone wearing the same shoes, an empathetic warrior, a place to call Home [where unconditional is a silver key and trusting me and not being so bloody scared]. A chance opportunity presents itself - remarkable and lustrous - and I am rendered to childlike wonder. Eyes wide, pounding heart, a giddiness conquering the synaptic response. And then come the rains [again] that call off the parade.
My heart breaks and he'd never know it if I didn't say so. The event isn't sharp and precise. There are no telling tracers, obvious and burning in the night in a language he would understand. Funny is the obligation I feel suddenly to keep it that way because the culture says to hold it close, circle up the wagons, girls. Be stronger than the predators' threat.
[I'd sooner leave the camp of false rigidness. I am no column, no tower of tenacity.]
From this proverbial leaping point, I gaze into the valley's greener grass then turn back, looking again behind me to survey the people of the mountain. I wonder [for the thousandth time since August] if I will ever belong.
...then I plan to rehearse a "gracious" stance of refusal to said Chance Offer, and enough maturity to quietly release the ache of a dashed dream.