I walk a foreign land, taking myself in hand alone and yet not, not alone. The more I accept who I am, the more sobered I become, the more room inside for joy – the quiet stuff of something deeper than the sheer bubbly, welling up and up, then receding for another grand massing wash.
It’s a stripping, gutting fullness growing something most alive most resilient, most sustaining when all my fears die, when I raise the knife and sacrifice their oozing forms, their haunting suggestion it’s somehow, all of it, about my being right or…wrong. About there being one right choice, not a multitude of possible wonders.
Die fear, die. You reek of something no longer needed, no longer relevant. Your home is long gone, far and away from here, that place where we battle over a standard born of death. Too many leagues I’ve travailed beyond your tyranny to stand here and look you in the face any longer than it takes to rip and shred you into bits.