The warm weather returns and with it memories of the unfathomable end of before the beginning of what I am today.
I fell to rest five years ago after being shunned by the world at large. There I lay, slowly covered by leaves and sinking into the soil. Moving was difficult. I made progress but not enough and drastic measures were taken. I dumped the whole thing out to see if there was anything left to me.
It turns out there was, but what was it?
Well, what did I want it to be?
What is good and what is possible? I looked around and took on pieces of others for myself. I was like him, I was like her and if they liked me back, then I was valid.
But people change and people leave, and if they did, so would I. I lived in fear of this and worked so hard to keep those pieces close and how I wanted. It was exhausting, but as far as I knew, it was necessary.
And then, on June 17th, it was all ripped away. What remained was stripped over the months that came.
My identity was gone and it was terrifying. If I was not the dreams I made, then what was I?
The confusion was excruciating but as the noise died away I began to grow my own bones and muscle.
I existed apart from the wills of others.
No longer the vine, but the tree.
Tilda still haunts my dreams, refusing to speak with me. To my subconscious she has come to represent an ancient desire, a goal for stability, some coveted thing that I no longer need but continues to sting through rejection. For all that has changed for me, some part still yearns for a resolution that doesn’t ache of failure.
I wonder about the festivals, if there will ever be another, and more important;
Would I, should I go?