My face in my palms. My eyes out of focus.
Psychologist James Pennebaker once said that whatever the form, it's most helpful to mental healing when the words create a meaningful story. Such a story can move someone from the event, through insight and toward acceptance or a solution. "There has to be growth. There has to be change. Otherwise, it's not therapy. It's theatre." Well, my blog is about both. It's my space, my vent. My catharsis. It helps me resolve. It helps me build chaos. This is where I am. With you.
This Summer, they should know about this flame inside. This gigantic tongue of fire inside that destroys what it tastes. You should make it run. Make it chase something. Watch as it spreads in a circle and dances like the devil. You should watch when it takes over. Applaud. This fire chases the good in me. It chases all that is happy, contented. My memories run like refugees, spilling the past over in small threads and crumbles. The fugitive prays for the rain. I don’t have the rain in me yet. You see the skin running dry, droughtlike. Nothing works on that parched terrain.
The fire reigns inside. This is the fire I inherited. And I need the slimy and the unctuous. To survive.
Why would you put it out? Something so primal. So bright. Let it flee. Create a burning desire and then destroy it the moment it takes shape. Let it scorch the vessels you so lovingly build with your earth and your water. Let it burn.
I was born of fire. The light. The chaos. The screams for mercy. The heat of emotions. I couldn’t last in a suit. I couldn’t behave myself. Because I couldn’t fight the fire even if you forced me to. Fire smells like home.