I spend my life writing odes to new beginnings. Handing out glory and sense of self and gratification. Everything is a pledge, everything is a devotional, everything for the purpose of self proposition. I’m tired of planning, I’m tired of pledging, I’m tired of advice and inspiration, I’m tired of attempting to force motivation through words. I’m tired of listening to myself speak, pushing myself forward; repairing what damage has been done. And why does it all have to be so cliché?
Am I self-destructive or stitching up old wounds? Or am I simply neither. Somewhere in between. Cutting open the sutures and pulling the flesh back together with strings coated in motivational, inspirational, self-propelling words.
Have I stitched the holes closed, or have I left them in my heart; am I still bleeding?
When something rips, it leaves a hole. But when it falls apart all together, you can somehow rework it, put it back together, so that no holes show through. It’s still broken, still tattered, still technically in pieces. But the holes are missing, filled in, shut by two busted portions stitched together again.
If I’m taking the time to write out all the things I say in my head, all the ways I’ll fix my heart, all the ways I pull my life back together—if I’m bothering to repeat myself on a daily basis, am I really suturing the wounds, or am I holding the bloody pieces, searching for my string? Or am I simply reversing all the work I’ve done, cutting and stitching, slicing and sewing. Each line over, each stitch altered, each suture becoming straighter and smaller with each pass of the needle. Each scar bleeding, healing, scaring again.
Am I self-destructive or stitching up old wounds? Or am I simply neither. Somewhere in between. Cutting open the sutures and pulling the flesh back together with strings coated in motivational, inspirational, self-propelling words.
Have I stitched the holes closed, or have I left them in my heart; am I still bleeding?
When something rips, it leaves a hole. But when it falls apart all together, you can somehow rework it, put it back together, so that no holes show through. It’s still broken, still tattered, still technically in pieces. But the holes are missing, filled in, shut by two busted portions stitched together again.
If I’m taking the time to write out all the things I say in my head, all the ways I’ll fix my heart, all the ways I pull my life back together—if I’m bothering to repeat myself on a daily basis, am I really suturing the wounds, or am I holding the bloody pieces, searching for my string? Or am I simply reversing all the work I’ve done, cutting and stitching, slicing and sewing. Each line over, each stitch altered, each suture becoming straighter and smaller with each pass of the needle. Each scar bleeding, healing, scaring again.
December 3, 2005
And I Fall Down Sometimes
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