Liberation Through Thought

I hate you. I don’t hate people. I strongly dislike parts of people: their choices, their behaviors. I don’t hate. But, I hate you. I hate you for being my father. The kind that bullies his children. I hate you for deciding it’s okay to break our toys as punishment. I hate you for choosing to run out when IT gets too much to handle. I hate you for making each day something I want to forget. I hate you for compelling us to be quiet mice when you get home from work. I hate you for raising your voice as if that would make all the difference. I hate you for calling me names no child should ever hear from their parent. I hate you for making me weak so I don’t fight back when I should. I hate you for getting into my head, enough to make me use a knife. I hate you for the way you always push up your glasses when you’re ticked. I hate you for thinking it’s okay to beat your children with a belt; as if the welts tell the truth of our bad ways. I hate you for mak...

It is with an increasing sense of disturbance that I have found myself paralleled to a figure of our history. She was such a pivotal woman in her era; choosing to remain single and unaffected by the standards of a society she never truly felt she belonged. Emily Dickinson has written with such morbid verve; relating and retelling moments of sadness, depressive states of antiquity, and altogether loathe for a life she struggled to live. Yes, in my high school days, Dickinson was a guest in my pantheon of writers. I accepted her disturbed countenance as I felt she and I shared this quality. Her ability to express clearly the pain and desolation rampaging through her heart, soul, and mind was something I had yet to experience on my own. I wanted to write in such a manner to steal the breath of my readers; that they would be so shocked, overcome by the words before them. Their eyes could not devour the words fast enough. Here I am in my revelation. I suppose in an awkward sense I have ...

There are moments in our lives which shape us. Bring us to a new understanding, of which beforehand we knew nothing of. The shift in our paradigm, the obvious tilt in our orbit is enough. It causes every fiber of our being to be examined, reflected upon, and criticized. We stand before our own mirror, our own looking glass, determined. We say to our mirrored self “I want to be beautiful”. How can the world understand what we truly want is to be loved? To be able to look ourselves in that jaded glass and know without hesitation. Is it possible, realistic even, to ask ourselves such a query? Would the world be able to grasp our hand, lift our spirits? When our life, even our most treasured loves are challenged, we fight. Why then, as humans, do we allow our very image to cause us to shrink? Do we not see the worth staring back in our misty eyes? Are we unable to feel the depths we encase in our souls waiting to be freed? A conundrum yet to be solved – to even be attempted...

Sitting here in my stuffy chair thinking upon my own existence, pondering the life you must have led, wondering about your intricate qualities. I know nothing of you and yet, your passing weighs heavily upon my heart laden with lead. Can I absorb your tragedy to? No longer a matter of strength, truly an issue of plausibility; one I cannot answer. My focus I find wanes, solely encumbered by a blurred image of you I crave to see in detail.

There are words to express the burning in my sockets, the choking grip in my throat, the retching sensation deep inside. There are words to comfort and console broken hearts tearing, screaming, shattered souls praying wistfully, minds mangled in foggy disbelief. There are words to indicate the inexpressible feeling of tragedy, the incomprehensible moment of loss, the unwavering coaster of emotions. There are words to lift spirits ravaged by a war uncontrollable, eyelids heavy, sodden with grief, shoulders slunk in submissive defeat. There are these words. I know not how to express them, how to use them to comfort and console, to indicate things inconceivable, to lift in times of great need. But -- I can cry. I know how to hug. Listen, I do well. Today, I need no words.

I feel outside of my skin as if I am looking onto a scene. Déjà vu and realistic though a different me. Someone I should know but find myself struggling to recognize. How can it be that she used to be me – used to share such likable qualities? And yet, here I stare and wonder where did the light go? So morose, depression set upon those chocolate eyes, bruised purple and sadly baggy with no other cause than life itself. I feel outside of my skin wondering when I can try it on again? When can I see how much baggage I have lost? Will I be a size or two smaller? Will I fit comfortably in my own skin?

The hazy dampness enfolding the surroundings, enriching the darkness. Silhouetted trees starkly black against the gloom of yellowed lamplight. Houses bare, absent of life in an otherwise bustling community. Forlorn seems too kind a description. Murky desolation entrancing the viewer. Slippery pavement seen as smooth glass, reflective of the eclectic atmosphere besieging the eve. Glimpses of flickering lights passing by, evicting their presence of this settlement. Their secrets no more revealed than that of spirits aimlessly wandering in marked repose. Misting sleet enamored with the air, gently traipsing to blanket the livelihood of humanity. Precious candlewicks gracing absent windowsills, glowing in retrospect of belief, death, faith. The innocuous cadence of falling liquid beseeches the kindred soul, focused, intent on drawing forth prospective victims. The picturesque landscape masked by the onset of fog, swarming to devour the abnormally reticent town. ...