Breaking the Chain

Connection is necessary. It can be scary for me. And yet I search it out and pursue connection out of requisite. On this plane and others I seem to find connection that relieves my suffering; that nurtures my spirit; that culls my inner song, be it ravage or absorbed. My friends are often those who understand the deeper self, that have struggled, that have slaved on this planet. I call on the wonders of this universe, on God to reach out to me in infinite wisdom and be my companion in this life. I used to feel alone in my struggle. I learned I have a choice, I learned that I can better myself and heal. My friends and connections have been monumental in this journey. Fellow travelers that listen to your pain, that hear your music, and can relate. I thank all of my readers who also allow me to feel heard.

A long dry road stretches out before me. Alongside, beyond the chain link fence stretches a wide and protracted runway. Behind me, moving slowly are many black oil tanks, caressing the tracks on their oppressive voyage. Two hundred yards down the highway sits my backpack thrown from the trunk of a cab, thrown by a driver fearing an imminent explosion. And the explosion is happening. All of my dreams, all of my plans and hopes for my inspired future lay scattered around the tires of the several cop cars, the bomb squad, the fire engine. I stand there, across the road from my indulgent bomb crew, soaking in the blood red setting sun on my life as I know it. I stand there isolated, not yet approached by the chosen police officer to extort the possible terrorist, psychopath, whatever I am deemed. Turns out I am just a lost, desperate, imploding young woman; helpless, diffracted, alone.

For years I was left standing there. I did not move. Though life continued to unravel from this grueling moment, in my heart I never budged. The day I died, alongside the Riverside airport runway, on the freeway, next to the oil tankers, watching the crimson sun set on my dreams, kept me captive. To break free of the moment I did many things. Though my soft tissue and delicate self was still splattered all over the highway on that evening, I wrote a memoir, I painted the lost pieces; I scribbled poems describing the destitution of my soul. In the beginning I did not know how to reach out to others, and I remained suffering behind the cold bars of my cell, alone. But as others began to hear my story and view the colors of my pain, I began to feel release. I was able to stretch the bars, and reach beyond them to hold a hand. Then I felt the music again. I was able to feel the softness of the world. I was able to see that I was not alone and that others struggle also.

I hope now to communicate. I hope to revel in others company and hear their stories. I wish for and crave the fine connection of another’s spirit; to hear about their pain, to reach in and hold their hand. Perhaps they will be able to pull me further out of my cage. I am thankful to all of those who belong on this path of life exactly where they are, and yet move to the rhythm of what calls to them. I am thankful for open ears and receiving hearts.