Little by Little...

I was beginning to fall in love with life. The resentment of my reflection in the mirror was shriveling, like a cloak that humanity toppled atop my head. When morning came, I wasn't cussing at the sun but drawing the curtains to wade in the light. I watered my plants and the flowers had only started to bloom.

No longer afraid of the storm, I slept to the sound of the rain and the soothing patters over my roof. I was unsure if this was life finally falling into place, or whether this was my way of contending with the pain. The less I tried to change things about myself, the more color my eyes could paint.  I found solace in acceptance rather than resistance. Hope was no longer a stranger my heart was fraught with. It had become a friend.

For the longest time, I had been standing at the edge of life, gazing into the abyss of something greater than myself. I was ordained for it, this much I knew, but the blankness was dreadfully profound, the blackness stretched on, endless. I slept to the bating rhythm of my heart, only for the whispers to wake me up. The shadows spoke to me in the night, reminding me that eventually, it would all make sense. Though difficult to reconcile, it was the only way to survive, so I clung to the belief as my lifeline.

On the cornice of my wall, a note fluttered in the chill of the night air. It was a page from a weathered notebook, written faintly, ‘I’m not planning to be here for that long’.  The sentiment wasn't about fleeing my room, but rather evading the entirety of life. It was a galling thought,  but strangely, what kept me alive. This was how the healing began, staring at the paper and realizing that time was slipping by and here I was. The mere thought of death was now a comforting blanket behind my back. Though ironically, I was never strong enough to pull it up and fully envelop myself in its embrace.

Often, I found myself staring at the line, trying to remember the exact time I wrote it, and I never could.

I teetered on the brink of weariness, yet never fully succumbed. My anxiety gripped me but never tightened its hold enough.

Each day, I braced myself for when I would fall into the pits of despair, yet it eluded me, refusing to arrive. It never came knocking at my door even while I was out searching for it. The concavity stemmed from wanting something but never being able to confront it.  

When the wind sifted forlornly over my skin, there was a promise that someday it would carry me with it. That the fateful day would come when my melancholy would skulk out of my heart to devour my whole being. When its poignance would scuttle down to my brittle knees and make me crawl to the edge of the pool. There, I would drown the dolor, over its blue halcyon color.

Surprisingly, the day was yet to come.

I was learning how to live, and at first, it was an appalling sight, but I had learned how to make my tea. Finding meaning in sadness and lying in fresh silk with a glass of wine.

Little by little, I was pruning the flowers growing in my heart. Removing the thorns from my roses.

Little by Little, I was coming home.

Home; To find solace in the warmth of my own embrace, content in the company of my own self.