I am carving out infested areas.
It isn’t ideal.
In a perfect world, I would have a month, or six,
To sit and fix what’s broken.
I would have, alone time,
To sit seething with self-loathing until,
It foams and evaporates into steam,
Rebirthing in condensation,
Leaving behind all the bits that didn’t belong.
But instead, I am filtering through stone.
And, perhaps, this is better.
Perhaps the imperfections will still leave me mineral rich.
Not the perfect medium to experiment with,
But the perfect substance to enrich the world around me.
I am growing, slowly.
Instead of the screams and wails, of
anguish that could have overtaken me,
The emptying of ages that my insides need.
There is a slow, systematic turning,
Of inside to out,
A rolling, and pausing, to do the other mundane,
necessary tasks I can’t escape from,
A reminding, and remembering, and reminding, and remembering
To keep what we need, and throw out what is past,
dead, and rotting.
Instead of a sea of alcohol, and a plume of smoke
I might have wished to drown in, before
emerging, there are sun lit breakfasts
And dusks, drowsy from productive exhaustion.
There is spiritual refuge, where the world around
Refused my requests for respite.
And, if nothing else. That push, to spiritual reconciliation
Is all the healing help I needed.
To deal, without having a chance run from triggers.
I am healing,
I am building, more than I ever did, back when I could truly take time out.
I am achieving, so much, one-ness, from this reconstruction.
And with this knowledge, I find the spring of joy,