rise
My story — here at least — is one of pain. Physical, medical pain. And one of love. Well, so far, that is.
Rising from pain is joyous. There is a darkness in the days when it holds tight. My mind turns cloudy, focus flickers — flitting from one thing to the next — until the pressure builds, relentless, and pushes me so far down that I stop.
Seated, I can lean. Walking or standing, I grow faint. I bounce off walls, kneel just to hold my body straight.
Half a day. A full day. Whatever it is, it comes with an intense grip — something just this side of vicious razor wire, stretched across a wide expanse of blackened, malformed tundra. Visions of emptiness, of darkness, of depth — and of patience — take hold.
Patience.
For what else can there be at times like these? Like those.
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I do question, sometimes, how I’m still breathing. Still living. Still here, within a wide, thriving world.
And then, the tide turns. Eventually. Slowly, my appetite returns. The veil lifts. Sometimes it takes the night to fully dissolve the haze.
But when it does — it’s beautiful.
To look around and see the wonders of the world.
To smell the sweet, palpable scent of flowers in the garden, by the doorway.
The perfume of a fresh shower — hair still damp, drying in sunlight that blesses my skin with a warmth beyond description.
The entwined melody of music and the life of the house around me — bamboo rustling, crickets chirping, geckos calling out in a chorus, all backed by a gentle breeze.
Rising again, I see beauty in the world.
Here lies the silver lining.
Forever and always — so long as the ability to return from darkness remains —
there will be joy.
Even when hidden.
Even when buried in shadow.
