“To a certain kind of mind, what is hidden away ceases to exist.”
My mind is not like this. It is a vault, a well, a story. It lives in my memories, in my heartbreak, my happiness, and in you. It surrounds my body and is my body. My mind is my hands and my eyes. Mostly my mind is my ears, but I am changing that.
Lately its been thinking about seasons. In a month, the leaves will fall, the wind will quicken, plans will change. Most people mourn the death that welcomes fall. I’m waiting for what it reveals. When the foliage falls and bitterness comes, I can see forever. Out my back deck, stands tree after tree after tree. Home to the birds, the owls and squirrels, it’s a beautiful homage to fullness.
But I don’t feel full anymore.
Soon, the yard will stand vacant, and I will see the horizon. When the temperatures fall, my body will work harder to keep me warm. I will shiver away the cold. I will see forever.
My mind is the one who knows this, my hands listen and I refuse to water my plants. I want to hurry the pace of winter.
Some people think you cannot mourn that which you never had. I have had it all and I have had nothing all together at once.
My mind mourns them both.
Everyone keeps telling me this is all about time. But it feels more like space. And I think there is a subtle distance between the two. Time feels like an eternity and space more like air.
In the space I occupy, I am eternally present. This was always my goal of course. But remaining here is a constant struggle. My mind trips me with lies and tells me I am weak, I am used. Except I am neither.
My mind wants to punish my heart, for making stupid decisions, for trusting.
I said my brain would lead me through this and I promised to not listen to the longing in my chest, because my heart would always go back. I lived in reverse. Accepted the wrong apologies, denied the voices, believed the touch.
Now I think I had even this backwards, for it is my heart, shallowly beating that is leading me now. Wounded, but not broken, I can eradicate what is left and build a lifetime upon it.
Foundations made of sand, it turns out, are not always washed away–but float separately in a sea of memory.
What might have been becomes an abstraction, a piece of me yes, all of me no. I ignore the whispers because even cast aside, I lie here alive. I feel the weight, but still breathe.
This is not my story yet.