I thought I might talk of healing.
But maybe that's not what this is about? I thought, perhaps, that means nothing is truly broken - but the opposite is true. It is a need for full restoration, conversion. The rough corners have been chipped off the square peg, and it is lodged - scraped and damaged - in its round hole. Impossible to release, without stripping down further. The force required to pull will surely send it flying, metres or light years from its home, ripping through all that it passes.
Do not flatter yourself. A fleeting thought, that the damage might be greater if you stay, but why believe you are the lynch pin? Perhaps it is you alone that will be further worn down, shattered, splintered, crumbling to dust.
And yet I know it, I am special, valued, made indispensable in this life which is not mine. So firmly wedged there seems just one way out. But I cannot justify the forceful tearing away, the cracking of the whole structure. Too afraid to make the final gesture and flee from the crashing of the collapse, so I chip away, cowardly and insincere.
I am offered hands, falsely gentle, taking hold to help to ease me out, but they begin to tug and wrench, and I cannot trust them, making me see the truth only tightens the vice. And can it be so wrong to disregard selfish clamour, is freedom really the joy I am promised? Is the risk for me, or for someone else's agenda? From one life which is not mine to another, drifting as always with the current, utterly convinced of others' reality. Trust all, or trust none, and the first is impossible, when views are poles apart. So I keep a pole's length between, waiting for it to drive into me, and force me one way or another.
Healing?
No, waiting.
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