This uneven ground is rife with hazards. No matter how many have trod it before the road never seems worn to smoothness by the cumulative footfalls of so many broken hearts.
I oscillate between striding with purpose and aimless shambling. I get lost. I stumble. I curse and cry and throw things occasionally. I spend a lot of time alone, and trying to change that pattern is both welcome and not all at once. In still moments I attempt to pry the mashed and damaged bits of my own heart from this bloody road, cleaning off the dirt as best I can. There are small stones embedded in tender places and I can’t seem to free them without causing further damage so I leave them to be healed over. In time, with hope.
Hope is a bitter, sorry Band-Aid and I often begrudge it space in my house, though I don’t seem to have the heart to banish it entirely. It whispers sweet nothings in my willing ears, but is never around at two in the morning. It is fickle and inconstant and its presence is as painful as its absence and how I wish it would just die. Still I can’t let it go.
Freedom does indeed sometimes feel like just another word for nothing left to lose, but I would not go back. Even as paychecks fall short and expenses loom large and loneliness echoes through my body I would not go back. Freedom is my anchor and deliverance my guide as I trudge through the acrid smell of decay toward an ineffable brighter tomorrow. Too weary for optimism, too stubborn for surrender. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.