I’m tired of making sense. It’s like I’ve got to stretch to fit and it’s not working. Life doesn’t always make sense. Why should I bend over backwards, crane my neck, and break blood vessels in my eyes just to make it all appear flawless and put together? Nothing is perfect or flawless. I was right when I began; I can take all of this. Only, my definition of “this” has changed. I can take whatever I need to. And I realize what I need isn’t the world spinning. To let go is to cry from my lungs, to let my soul shiver in the darkness, the cold that seeped in. To let go is to warm with the silence seeping from inside me until I can feel it, wiping away the pain.
I said something on twitter the other day that didn’t make sense. I do that. I speak sometimes without understanding myself, where it came from, this nonsense. What I think is really happening is I’m escaping through fissures. I’m breaking and its saving my life.
“Something witty. Something lovely. Something inspiring. I don’t know. I know the silence hiding within, trying to pour out into my skin.”
“When the silence spills into my lungs, I think it’s time to hear it.”