Enough is never.
Sorry is not.
I only want what will sustain me and yet grasping outward like a blind child at what could be, I drain and tire those around me in my attempts at life. My own life is drained in the process. Like a tub constantly filled and emptied over and over until it is a constant flow of energy. Filling and done, filling and done.
Yet the tub never stays full. Not allowed to ever sit in the comfort of finished long enough to soak up the sustenance I receive and be full. Damned well.
My heart is cracked open and bleeds freely, all over the ground below. Feet sopping wet with blood I stumble through gravity into others. The heart is full and tender, foolish at best, wanting only to love but sloppily drunk with confusion as it turns in blindness; whirling like a toy searching in hopes of a truth that will fulfill this bored empty depth.
Stealing grace from one moment to the next, hoping to carry the burden of a permanent drought so that no one else has to, I bury deeper into the ground for balance. Feet sink deeper into earth, searching for moisture only to hit rock and bone, a sharp reminder that growth happens upwards not behind.
The sustenance I receive still leaves me dry and brittle, yet I am drowning in something? Waterlogged, stuck and sullen unsure of what direction to move into, I grab to hold on desperately, like tree leaves shooting out in all directions madly looking for sunlight. A frantic motion to sustain life and yet one that sucks the life from me. Sorry is not enough as regret seeps into the ground cementing my feet.
Teetering between worlds, I give and get and give and get, exhausted and not for the better. I sit solemnly in a pool of muck and dirt alone with no water to wash away to clean. Perhaps I have given it all away? It no longer remains precious. Maybe what I receive, is not sustenance?
A bead of consciousness breaks through and one small drop of light pierces into my heart painfully, releasing a tiny sliver of space to set freedom aloft and reset a new course to allow for movement into sky once again.
New freedom for a moment. Fragile, uncertain clarity seeps in that stings like soap on a wound.
I move forward into light so blinding that I recoil as if light is the enemy and not an old friend. Triumphantly I realize that I have been here before and will rise up and out of this mire knowing a bit more and seeing truth for what it is.
©3/5/11 photo and words by Danya Mosgofian