Up this road just a few miles more is where I lived my worst memories. Gill. That’s the name of the town. Lots of cows, brooks and a river. An editor is trying to help me push forward with my story. He’s waiting for my adjustments. Every time I open it, I’m triggered. I’ve updated nothing. Maybe I should drive to this spot, walk a few miles. Maybe that’ll unlock my leash. That’s the thing about severe childhood trauma. You can lock it away, compartmentalize, as always, but when it comes down to it it’s as alive as it always was. Fight or Flight. I chose to fight. I’m stuck on FIGHT. Up that road, just a little ways, holds some of my best memories. Mother. Brothers. Life.
I believe empathy to be the
foundation of humanity’s intelligence;
empathy is not a game in which we
pull the emotional strings of another-
to wish to ensnare is to continuously
bellow at the very depths of the bottom.
Empathy is the light. Empathy is the
strength to call a stranger brother
while recognizing their pain is just,
and knowing the path to their healing
as we extend our hand to pull them up.
All of the ugliness is why. It’s why we sit in front of reflecting windows, looking, wanting; a push of a something is more than nothing, it’s what we wish to be-
while the word of the ready readies, “I miss you,” normalizing time, crackling, being, and seeing the window watching ourselves turn to stone like the un-shifting; unwillingly we see it so nebulously, we crawl.