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Home is not a place. Home is an architecture of bones and a steadily thumping heart. Home is where dreams are born, and monsters are put to rest. It is where the soul can unfurl like the petals of a flower and find succor in the golden blush of each new day.
My sorrow was a dark, secret thing, a stray cat hidden in the coldest corner of my soul. I fed her scraps. I watched her grow.
Sometimes it is the wounds we do not see that leave the deepest scars.
The soul is such a fickle thing. Easy to bruise. Easy to wound. No wonder why we protect ourselves with this careful camouflage. All of these meticulously cultivated aspects of ourselves we drag with us through the years. Our costumes are heavy, of course our spines are bent.
“It’s okay to break, Arlen,” Chris replied, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do. Shatter, and then rebuild yourself from the pieces.
Strange, how a body doesn’t have to bleed or break to experience a fatal wound.
It is strange, is it not, how the very things we crave end up destroying us in the end. It’s as though we desire the shine of the knife, but only feel satisfied once we see our own blood.
Love is not gentle. It is not soft. Love is the wildfire, and we walk into it over and over again, offering up our souls, and thanking fate when we get them back broken, sharp, and covered in char.
Love was the fire, and I walked into it over and over again knowing it would burn me. She was the sweet music of my destruction. The lullaby of my end.
Some truths don’t need words to cut right through a person.
Grief is an odd beast. It comes upon everyone differently. Sometimes a person can be grieving without even knowing that’s what they’re doing. Sometimes it feels like a landscape shifting inside of you, and all that pain is a fire just waiting to burn its way to the surface. Waiting to transform the topography of your soul.
Love is a battlefield strewn with the corpses of hopes and dreams and still we fight, for what else is there for us to do?
