I move carefully so as not to dislodge any... memories? Not memories of the past but the present.
Not wanting to stir up anything that might instill an emotional response. Need to stay even. Placing my feet on the crumbling ground so slowly. Silently.
I drag salt against the wound. It is scented with lavender. The salt causes the wound but the scent is sweet. The pain a barrier. The pain somehow a balm. The pain is nothing that will wake the self.
Self is not safe. Leave it lie.
I once consoled the self with the thought of uniqueness. That there was value or proof of the divine in the interaction between the self and music or light or beauty in the small spaces.
These consolations no longer ring true.
The self is duplicated. There are others who teach these students, who raise these children. Others share my parents. Others sing my songs. There is built in redundancy in the system.
Would there be an alteration... of course. The self is not unaware. The symphony is made of many sounds though and one might not recognize after a time what was missing.
I feel too fragile.
I feel faced with endless and soon process of losing things which I hold dear. Again and again. Only to accelerate with age.
I am the wound, and the salt, and the light. I am writing this with only my index finger. In a cocoon of darkness I never want to leave.
I am am afraid if I begin to cry I will never stop. And I will discover that all this while I am Lot’s wife. That salt is all there is to me. And with tears I will be no more.
This seems rather darker than I should like to post. But I said I would be honest.
Quaker, teacher, parent,