The Phantom Limbs

Months pass as I fall forward in time. It feels that way, as though I am falling forward into tomorrow, rather then stepping forcefully and deliberately. I don't own time, it owns me, marking it's passage on my fingers and face.

I once gave someone a gift, that, to me was more precious that all the jewels and money in the world. The gift went fundamentally unanswered, and unacknowledged, though a thank-you was given. Acknowledgement is more than the tired words "thank-you". And on the day all my bleeding words fell, like so many crumbling petals, something inside of me broke. Something fragile I held against my trembling heart. It's easy to try and talk ourselves away from pain, though it rarely truly works. I tried to bolster myself, let go, and dismiss all the stricken vulnerability I felt, but there was no way through when all the sign posts were gone. We all want validation, though we spout off courageous words of being singular, alone, not needing others to make our truths real. We all say it, and yet, ultimately, almost all hurt in relationships comes from feeling singular in our beliefs, from not feeling heard or understood, which isn't so far from validation. That is what broke, what cracked and fell inside of me, the silence. Rent space that was too much. I tried to pull the pieces together but they don't fit any longer.

Time is supposed to be a healer as it pulls us further and further away from the impact of craterous events. Sometimes, it feels less like healing, like the stitching together of jagged edges, and more like resignation, acceptance of the immovability of the past, acceptance of pain. Memories are like phantom limbs, feeling with no substance. We all cradle ourselves around our hurts, curl ourselves around the raw points, to protect, to allow for healing to start, unmolested. Sometimes I want to curl myself around that gift, long since given, taken and discarded, to lay on the refuse of a past choice and hold it, shielded from the future.

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