Box

Here I am. Where I am. Here in my box. Here. Ready? Waiting. Waiting for the next wave, waiting for the revelation. A tigress pacing in her lair. The lacerated tigress, bleeding, has been ignored. She was there, dancing, thrashing, bleeding, waving her arms in the air. But the dream took us nowhere.

To turn toward her is so…uncomfortable. How strange, the discomfort of comforting. The irony of jumping into the flames. Can you be afraid of the flames when you are in them or is anticipation a required ingredient for fear? Some say it is projection of the past onto the future. Pure limitation of the possible.

Music plays down the hall and it rubs my brain in the most irritating way. Sibilant, metallic, loud. No space. Space and silence is disconcerting, noise and crowdedness disconcerting in it’s own ways. The little child pushing every button to every floor on the elevator. Making us all stop at every step along the way.

Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m depressed or just worn out from trying to feel in a world where there is so little room for that. It’s so tempting to conform…to live in the illusion that there is room for me. But the boat has left shore and there is no going back. Partly woken up is such a terrible place to be. Feeling the discomfort, knowing how much more lies ahead and yet knowing that to turn a blind eye would be a lie. Trapped! The only way is forward. The only way is deeper. And I drag into the drag what a drag to drop the drag. Leave the race, get out of this place, climb lowly steady at a snail’s pace. Take the medicine, chant and run. Sit and stare at the blank wall until you see something move or nothing moves at all.

The no movement. The stuck. That’s the muck. The bleeding tigress has her glamour and charms.

 

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