I smelled Fall today on the breeze which licked promise of change into the skin of my want as I drifted through the dark night and followed the trail of restless discontent which drew me along the midnight roads. My mind won’t settle and dread trickles dreary through pore and sinew as I walk the night and watch the stars wheel free above me and yearn towards the heavens and the freedom they promise.
I close my eyes and the whisper of ocean sweeps into my thoughts and I breathe deep the spume which drifts cool through thoughts of rocky shores and yearn with a physical ache that catches my breath towards change and venues unconquered.
I tremble within the prison of thought and emotion and wonder at the human capacity to metamorphosis and the ability to shed skin and mindset together with the seasons which flip time through our lives and leach possibilities from our future. The paths are always there, though hidden perhaps in a fall of leave and loam and the detritus of past actions and spent emotions.
I have been musing lately on the nature of change and the impact on our lives of pain delivered with forethought and intent and without the leavening power of care. Scars change the landscape of skin and sinew and form new venue not always familiar to eyes which reinvent remembered lands now twisted and scarred with thought and deed. Lands which spark recognition then confusion as we pause, certainty confused by new settings.
The human psyche is truly remarkable in its ability to withstand agonies that in hindsight, seem insurmountable and impossible to internalize. Yet many of us do and indeed, find inner strength and purpose that forces us forward, reluctant, in pain yet with fortitude and determination cloaked in inevitability and a stoic need to continue.
A year ago, I was here – and the mantle of rage still sits comfortably there in the front of my cupboard although truth be told, I seldom wear it these days. Nonetheless, it is there, not yet pushed to the back nor do I feel inclined, in thought, word or deed, to put it away anytime soon. For its warmth and strength have sustained me through times of bleakness and the the black fragility of broken soul for longer than I care to recall.
I think perhaps that the rich red expanse of rage will be internal to who I am for the balance of a life that has used its rich cloth often to provide strength through times of need. I have no desire to fight the conflagration of its enveloping folds nor wish to reject its sometimes painful hold.
It is, when all is said and done, part of the entirety of me.
I run my fingers along the scars of a psyche battered by neglect and spite and feel the healing beneath the twisted skin. Like rage, this scarred reminder of past agonies is integral to who I am right now and while his fingers are gentle now and run warmth along the whorls and twists of his creation, I recognize that scars are not just skin deep but run tendrils of change soul-deep.
I recognize too that scars are not intrinsic only to me but that each of us carries with us, sometimes obvious, sometimes not, life’s interpretation of what it means to exist.