A Hurricane That Started Turning When You Were Young

I seem to have an exquisite talent for getting myself into lose / lose situations. I always have.
Whenever I see the ballet I always say I wish I could be that delicate. Come to think of it now, I've always been delicate. Not fragile, because that implies that I can be broken, shattered and destroyed. Delicate... like a violet that can be smushed beneath a boot. Resilient... like a violet that springs back up a few moments after the careless, boot-wearing individual has continued on their way.

My head is spinning in a million directions.

I have this dream...
My heart is buried in separate pieces on separate hills. This one hill has this view of these amazing sunsets, endless sunsets... No sunrise, just the perpetual, amber western sky. If I turn away I can see the night sky in all its splendor. The stars are so beautiful that I just can't breathe for looking at them.

I love this hill. The hill reminds me of daydreams from when I was little. It's the place I always wanted to live. It's the best of all worlds. It's good and hearty, but it's exciting and completely enthralling. I can breathe deep and just be. I can run around and play.

But my heart is still buried in the hill. And all the other parts are still buried on the other hills. When I tried to go back and dig them up the only things I find are these little pieces of me that are still clinging to the roots of the trees planted in the hill. I try and tell the younger versions of myself to just let go. Let go and come see this place that I've got for you...

But she shakes her head and she cries and says "No! Can't you see that I love the tree! I don't care if it's dead or it's dying! I love it and it's mine and I belong with it! Go on to your own hill and your own tree!!! This is where I stop. I can't just stop belonging here to belong elsewhere."



I know I have to go and bring her with me anyway. She can't stay with the rotting dying trees and the rotting dying roots. She needs to be free. I know that she'll hate me and she'll scream and cry at me. I know that she'll be crushed beneath the weight of her grief, but I know that when she breathes the fresh air and rests in the peace and plays beneath the diamond sky... she'll start to live again.

I know what I want. I know what I should want. I know that there is no middle ground.


I've made my decision.
This is my hill. These are my sunsets. These are my stars. This is my tree. All my pieces belong beneath it's leaves. All of them. If some other tree on some other hill wants any part of me, tough luck friend...