Last night, I woke up in a cold sweat. My bedroom window was still encased in onyx, the clouds rolling ruthlessly over a moon that offered no ounce of illumination.
I had kicked all of the covers off of my bed, mistaking them for hands that were not gentle. My hair was stuck to the back of my neck and my breathing was seizing in rhythm. These nightmares still come often, reminders of where my life once lost her vitality, trauma seeping in through my eyes that ache to dream of innocent things once again.
I escaped for ten silver rimmed days to the sea, and twenty more in her arms are waiting for me on the other side of tomorrow. Yet it is a strange feeling, to know that no matter where I go, the past seems to be following me. Hundreds of miles, hundreds of minutes, they can not seem to separate me effortlessly from the days that were not so illuminescent.
I do not know when I will feel okay again.
But here is what I do know.
I know that energy is never created nor destroyed, simply transformed into a different medium. By this standard, the joy with which I used to attack life, the childlike trust I used to give so willingly, and the belief I used to carry within myself as the sole catalyst for my own ambitions… these things have not been lost. They are still sleeping within me. I am the same yellow light that I was when I was five and I still believed in magic and fairytales. It is not ever, possibly, going to be lost. I am still the home to this energy. It is my job to search my body for it, rack my brain for it, and carry it, limp as it may be, back to my center.
I know that storms pass over. I am watching the evidence of this right now. Colossal clouds the color of lead and loss are gently rolling over this small ocean town. And tomorrow morning, they will be gone, and the sun will rise again. If the fishermen can base their livelihoods off such a fact, so can I.
I know that all ice can melt to water if it is placed over a flame. I believe the same goes for souls. If life feels too cold, adding passion can revive it to its true, most comfortable medium. Add a little blood, a little sacrifice, and you have watercolor.
These are the things that keep me sane when I feel like I’m grasping at straws.
Sometimes you just gotta write it down, for yourself, and for whoever else is listening.