_The making of a memory

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I woke up. I saw that the shrapnel of nonchalance had torn at my surface. Devastation hung in the air like second-hand smoke and the only thing I recognised was the numb.

Slowly, as if pieces of glass floated in on the air, I looked closely and could make out the unwritten labels. There was arrogance and on its other side self condemnation. There was stubbornness and on its other side co-dependence. There was ambition fronting procrastination, control freak sharing abode with the addictive personality, and self-opinionated sharing shard with self-condemnation.

Such complexity. Such fragility. Such a ticking time bomb.

Confusion hung in the air like second-hand smoke and the only thing I recognised was the numb. This numb that had become a way to substantiate the shadows, the sadness and the sorrys.

The sorrys…

People will have you believe that’s not really a word and we are not really here.
People will have you believe this is not really happening and we are not really here.
People will have you believe it’s not really the end of the world because we are not really here.

But I am here. And I am going to be okay. I have good days and bad days, but – either way – I know that those are just moments… Because before and after all that, I know this to be true:

There is something magical about a drowning soul. It learns to fly where it used to sit. It learns to embrace the time it used to waste. It learns to shake off all the shit that held it back and it re-learns how to step back into the light.

Sure, the numb isn’t fun, but it’s bracing when you can see it for what it is. And when you do, you will do one of two things: Enjoy being numb and talk about it to anyone who will listen, or do a one-eighty that sees you go anywhere but stay where you are.

Such complexity. Such beauty. And no longer necessarily a ticking time bomb.

There are 84 000 pathways to revealing your golden mind and therein end your suffering. That doesn’t mean you have to know all of them, but you could make a start with just one.

The making of a memory is this.

This here.

This now.

I am here. And I am going to be okay.

© Dylan Balkind

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