My convictions were so strong, I had finally figured out life, my pain had ceased and my outlook was once again positive.
My concrete ground has crumbled; I trip as my feet are caught in the cracks as I walk past.
Before I envied those who had, and despised being the one without. Then I gained, and stitched my life’s ***** on the fabric stitch by stitch, painstakingly sewing myself my own vulnerability with each day. There, my greatest strength became my greatest weakness. When the hand came down and ripped out my needlepoint, it effectively tore out my very life’s blood.
A wraith, I floated though a land no longer my own. I was a mere shadow of myself, the person I had been a thing to be mourned, but I could not perform even this simple task, for I had no way to generate the necessary emotions.
Never trust, for in doing so there is nothing to be gained, and all to be lost.
But still, I endured.
I struggled forth, all of my strength devoted to placing one foot in front of the
other…
day by day
hour by hour
minute by minute.
And I moved forward.
Like a fairytale princess waking from the enchanted sleep, I opened my eyes and for the first time in months looked around.
I was me.
I was not lost, nor sleeping, nor dead.
I was very much alive, and all the wiser of what waits on the other side.
I AM NEVER GOING THERE AGAIN.
I dug through the trash, searching for the remains of my once-beating embroidery. Between the banana peels and non-recycled water bottles I found the scrap of material, tattered at the edges and unraveling at my touch. I picked it up, and pulled out my needle and thread, setting to work once again.
This time the task was purposeful. I took off my shirt and pushed an arm through the sleeve, grabbing hold of the end and then pulling back, turning it inside out. There I began to sew, using each stitch as a reinforcing shackle, holding the artwork prisoner. Though confinement is not pleasant, it’s safe.
That’s what matters.
Right?
I was strong.
I went without, and did not desire anything different.
I needed nothing else, and my convictions strengthened by the second.
After all, it can’t be a poor philosophy if it ends the pain.
Why do you look at me like that?
I am right! I will never again be vulnerable, open to such cruelty. Don’t say that! What do you know anyway? How could you possibly give me advice: you, who has everything? You, who lives the life my foolish, naïve self once dreamt of?
What compels you to wield the jackhammer?