It’s hard to see you this way, but hey, this is part of the game, right?
We signed up for this, remember?
There is me on my side and you on yours, which is not to say that you or I are against each other, because we’re not.
Not at all.
There is no line between; there’s just a wall you’ve built, which I understand because I have my own walls too.
We all do, as a matter of fact.
I spent most of my life trying to build mine, only now, to take them down.
Your repeat offenses are nothing more than a list of excuses that eventually wore out from the rain. You need a place. You need a port in the storm. You need somewhere you can step back for a while (so you can breathe) and get some rest.
I see you as a soldier without a battle. You swing and you fight back against an enemy you could never see without a mirror.
I suppose this is probably why people like us never liked the sight of our own reflection. It says too much.
You spent so much time trying to reach the sun, like Icarus, remember him?He was from the Greek tragedy. Icarus was the one that used wings to escape from the city of Crete.
He was warned not to fly too high, but he did, and the sun melted the wax that joined the feathers on his wings.
As high as he was, he crashed back down to the ground.
Sound familiar?
You spent so much time trying to reach the sun, but like Icarus, the wings you chose could not stand the heat —so they melted and brought you back down to purgatory, or the interim, which you could never stand to begin with. You may have lost your wings for now, but not the desire to fly.
I know soldiers like you. I have seen them return from battle. They look the same. Eyes watering, body cramped, sick, tired, beaten, and there’s only one way for them to get out of the atmosphere. This is what hurts to see because the solution becomes the problem. And that’s why no one wants to kick. it’s too hard. It hurts, Plus, it sucks to be back down on the ground, listless, in limbo, or stuck in the fabric of your own purgatory.
I’ve watched soldiers count their scars like little kids counting marbles. The more scars, the more you add to your collection, which means you understand pain. This means you’ve bled. This means you know you’re still alive (for now.)
I know every scar tells a story. Each one is linked to a battle that never seems to go away. Each one proves you know how to hurt, but more, each scar voices the pain your words could never say:
To pierce the flesh is to lance the wound; to poke the hole, to bleed, to materialize, or manifest the madness in a way that no words could ever say.
Besides, speaking would only say the truth, and if you spoke, you’d have to face the lies and then your enemy would be revealed
(This is the reason why we hate mirrors)
Everyone has their own scars by the way. Some just hide them better is all. I have my scars too. I won them by fighting my imaginary demons that were nothing more than a hallucination, dreamt up by the deception of my perception, also known as my deepest darkest fears, which never seemed to let me go.
I have scars the same as anyone. I used to see them as self-inflicted trophies, which proved I had “Something,” even though I felt as if I had nothing.
I used to think this described me but now I realize that none of this defines me; not this, not my mistakes, not my regrets or my shame.
It feels strange when it’s quiet
(Do you even understand what I mean?)
To sit in silence and be disturbed by the peace; always waiting, always wondering, always looking for the tripwire, to trigger the minefields in your head, to feel the explosions so you can plan your response and let the virus back in; it’s what goes on sometimes if i’m being honest.
I believe they call this depressive thinking, which is part of the game too.
I imagine every soldier wonders what it feels like to find peace. I suppose it’s like being a child again and resting easy in the whiskers of God the Father’s beard.
It’s hard to see you this way. Although, before I go any further, I have to admit it. I get it. I understand the temptation. I understand the contempt for ground level and the need to feel “High,” so to speak.
My beast speaks to me too. He never went away. He just changed his act a little. Sometimes he speaks in whispers. Sometimes he speaks in truths. Sometimes he switches dialects; otherwise, I’ll just know it’s him, whispering.
I know I will lose myself if I listen, and just like that, I’m back to the battle.
Ever wonder why the devil never dresses himself in anything fancy?
It’s so you never see him coming.
One thing is for sure though. The devil is always there.
You and I both know he is. We see him all the time.
You see him on your side of the table and I see him on mine.
This is why some people push the needle in—
To make him go away . . .
The Written Addiction 