The rite of passage

There is truth of beauty in the human pain, the beauty of the dark and hollow…

We, women, so desperately want to see things alive and living. It is an inherent feature of our longing to succeed, progress, create, sustain and nourish. Sometimes we keep caressing stuff or relationships long dead cold or dying. We are hesitant to let go, give up for good, walk out of debris and also denying or delaying grief of loss. How so? Fearful of more self-inflicted pain and discomfort as if against the laws of nature to cut the light of life; however the things we grow to own, get to owning us.

If we were not celebrated for being unique and special how can we celebrate the gift of presence of others in our life? If we do not feel special how can we make others feel special to us? Is being taken for granted and abused supposed to teach us gratitude and appreciation? Somewhere in between the lines, I grew to believe it was true.

What is it that I have to grief about? I feel to grief the loss of essence of my life, the content, the unbecoming. I feel deprived or robbed of it, replaced by things I ought to or had to, because of and conditional alike….

I lost the sense of me, my value, my belonging, my self-worth… I never learnt to know of it, actually…

There is truth of beauty in the human pain, the beauty of the dark and hollow.

What we fear is NOTHING it contains: Unknown. Untouched. Made untouchable. Black abyss…

The most expensive things in the world are black in colour: oil, oysters, caviar, coffee, chocolate….Eating black food is like consuming death. It’s like saying, ‘Death, I am eating you’.

Life and death differ in qualities of being, they are equal nevertheless. They both ought to be honoured. They both deserve the treat-an equal treatment.

So what did I treat my life to? What gift have I made to death?

Nothing, really?!

Is that greed? Possessiveness? Why holding to what’s dying, supposed to die, asking to be dead?

Indeed, I did deny treating my life, or better yet, death to grief as well. I did not allow myself the rite of passage.

I am barely scratching the surface into living by feelings. So far it still feels like a film atop of my genuine sensations- going through my diary lately also proved this sterile existence. I am going through times of great pissocity on people, myself, life, all men and days when I am better disposed to not believe these thoughts. Then, rarely though, I soften up for tears. I look into the well of Love and know it holds toxins to be cleaned. So far its wrath and I wish for change the way I relate with pain of my life…It is all but relationship with me, after all, that longs for healing.

So, I am to shed what wasn’t me.

 

P.s.:

“I tear up happy in front of others’ talent,

I so wish to grief over my own”.

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