The street light outside pours in your room - it is 4:30 am.
Another topic consumes your brain - it is a must that you get out of bed.
Pour water in your kettle.
Plug it in.
Lift the switch.
You are listening to the steam bellow out of the spout. Your water is now ready.
You wander around the house searching for your computer from the night before - it’s probably due time that you pick a permanent spot.
You reach for your mug, pouring teaspoons of sweet granulation. Squeezing yellow citrus, you dunk the bag in.
Let it rest - just for a few minutes. Keep a close eye. You don’t want too much saturation.
You turn to your laptop. Open the top.
First light rests upon your face.
You access your files - your pen and paper.
You are home.
Words flow through your tips in the way you ever imagined - why couldn’t you do this before?
You hear voices, ‘Leave it be. This isn’t a story to tell any longer’.
You filter them out - you need that used for fuel.
This must be fulfilled.
There is a girl you made a commitment to.
This is happening.
You hear the longing in mother to end - a voice you’ve past heard. It convinced you not to write.
You hear her longing for you to tell a different version of the story.
You promised yourself, if the tale was not told in truth, you wouldn’t allow it written.
Your arm ends move and ten points spill out the once forgotten parts of you.
Each morning’s topic pertains to things taught from a previous day. Night time soaks essence on to lessons. You watch as your mind pours onto pages - you are where you always imagined being.
Everyone can now know. There is no more secrecy.
You are free.
Enough time passed.
You are forever safe.
You remember your vivid November dream.
Your five-year-old self is gazing up, asking if her future would be “okay”. You swore to her it would be - but, you knew.
You couldn’t bear to lie into those dark penny eyes.
Her mother would never be fine.
Her life would never be complete.
You couldn’t bear to tell her that her world would be shattered and that she would never find that spark of joy again.
But, you could tell her she would be just fine - knowing, she would rebuild in fantastic measures.
You recall grabbing her face, hugging her small frame, and loving her deeper than you’ve ever loved anything.
Your father entered, taking her hand and leaving your home.
She was safe in with him. She was loved in his arms.
Tears drop as you recall this dream and you remember again that you have left this topic of your life for five years.
Stop speaking only to the future that it will shape.
It has already begun form.
It is time to go back.
You gained clarity while you were away.
Now, every detail…remember.
Remember the thousands of children you put aside as those memories faded away from your soul. Children, living each day without a resource or a place to come and heal.
You forgot you were that child.
You had no one.
Not one person in commonality.
You forgot about the adult children, acting out in their pain and manifesting their actions through the visuals of what they do not dare think about - it is and was too grim for them.
You forgot you were that adult.
Again, they whisper for you not go back.
You refuse and cover your ears.
You must remember.
Close your eyes as you hover over your past-self.
You are now the spectator.
Recall that teenage girl making decisions based off of her pain.
Now, forgive her.
There she is - a twenty-something woman, drunkenly falling into a man’s bed.
She couldn’t do it any differently.
Remember her. Forgive her
Your eyes make contact. She grabs your hand.
You graze her cheek - that hurting young one.
You understand her.
You feel her.
You still are so easily her.
Remember your tools.
You wield a great mallet, crashing through barriers of fear and anxieties of uncertainty.
You’ve knocked down walls without her.
Now, breaking through for her.
You invite her to step through.
She steps, first.
You catch her.
You both smile.
Now, walking side by side.
She walks through another. This time, by herself.
She’s ready to go alone.
She looks up - the entry is far bigger than the both of you.
She asks to now bring along more.
Step through with more.
Grab more hands.
Your group is large and you’re dirty with large scrapes upon your skin.
You look down at collective scars from previous battles. They have now turned into calluses.
Those calluses turned to a thickening of cells and those cells remained unpunctured.
They have already been damaged before.
It will take far larger weapons to slice through them, now.
A figure stands in the way.
He asks, “Who are you to share this?”
Standing straight and brushing off your palms, you reply…
“Who am I not to share?”.
Honor your past.
There is more work to be done.