There comes a time when fights make no sense. Battles do more harm and the riots have all lost their reason. I swear, this is true.
I have come to surrender, I say.
But first, let me appeal to you.
There has to come a time when we realize that it is safe to lay down our weapons. Or if at all, there must come a time when we realize that our enemies were mostly imaginary.
If they existed, we come to find that our enemies existed more in our head than they did in real life.
Imagine the peace if we only walked away.
Could you?
This is not to say that there were never enemies at our gates. This is not to claim that there were no casualties, nor does this mean that we did not withstand damage, and that our scars did not become the bars and stripes on our sleeve.
We have earned our right to be where we are.
No one argues this.
(Except for our enemies.)
I do not say that our fights were not real. Not by any means.
Therefore, I will not say that our scars are not invisible nor are the wounds imaginary.
Yet, I say that our battles were more damaging in our post-war strategies. And falsely, we believed that one was like all and all were like one. To go forward, or to be safe, we flinched at the sight of our emotional battlegrounds. Next, we lost our innocence to friendly fire — assuming that there is such a thing.
To you, my most beautiful warrior —
My Princess
or Queen
You have grown too weary for me to say your travels have not gone far. Your legs must be tired from running through your own mind, and mine as well.
Your eyes show too many trips into the fire. Yet, your troops all depend on you.
You are the almighty Mother.
All will swear that you are fine, especially since you say so.
Most assume that you can carry the weight (of course) because you are there at the front and you always push through. . .
Always
I am tired. No.
Wait.
I am drained.
My battles were different and so are my fatigues.
Yet, my wounds seem to shape the same as yours or they appear just as tender to the touch.
I have no medals of honor or badges of glory.
I have my scars. I have my sessions and bouts with guilt. In hindsight, I look back at the waste of my wars. I look back in horror and regret.
What was I thinking?
Why didn’t I have the strength to walk away?
Besides, it took more strength to dress my wounds. Not to mention that I incurred more damage just to stick around and live on unkind soil.
(To keep my lies true.)
I endured too many fights which were either self-fought, or I failed to see that the war could have been avoided and over — had I realized that I had the strength to walk away clean and come out less-scathed.
I am writing this with my white flag raised high. I have no weapons of either mass or self-destruction. I am unarmed and I come in peace.
I believe the biggest threat was to be alone. Or maybe it was that I’d realize my wars would never stop and that I would be too weary to notice when peace would come my way.
Maybe loneliness was frightening to me or too lonely to consider. At the same time, at least I knew where my enemies were —except, I used to keep them alive and well-fed in the camps of my subconscious programs.
Let’s see—
I am guilty of war crimes. I used my internal narcissist as a sniper.
I used him to insulate myself and keep me safe.
I used my words like bayonets and at the flesh of casual and innocent bystanders.
I admit this.
I kept hostages.
I have been held hostage to others as well as to myself.
It would appear that I am unharmed. Some might believe that I am unmoved or that my scars are meaningless, at best.
No, this is not true.
I have fears. I have trauma.
I have battles that rage in my head because my heart was unsure where the first shot came from.
Or was this shot by me?
Did I move first, as in preemptive, or did I preemptively shoot because I was afraid?
Hence, my emotional flinch pulled the trigger in fear that I would come under fire and be hurt once more.
Look, see?
The sun is about to rise and there is no one around but us.
You and I can end this, at least between us.
I have gone too far and lost too often. Sure, one could argue that my wounds may be superficial, or self-imposed. One could argue that my wars were pre-mature and perhaps, so was my fear and evacuation.
One could argue that had I stopped and dropped the fight and let go of my fear; I would have seen that it is okay to walk away. It’s okay to see the genius or the victory of surrender.
Therefore, I come to you with no weapons and no tricks up my sleeve. I am coming to offer you my rations, in case you need food, or anything else to nurture your soul.
I have come to offer an olive branch.
I am not familiar with your battles or your trenches.
But our wounds are similar, and both hurt us down to the core.
It is a warm morning, here in purgatory.
I hear the weekend will be beautiful.
In all fairness, you are all too beautiful to lose your glory. And I am all too free to admire your soul or to see you in any other way than heroic, true, brave and beautiful.
You are strong as ever. However, I assume you would be fine or even prefer to be weaker; that is, if it was okay to lay down your weapons and find yourself safe.
Sit with me now, please?
Let us look up at the stars.
I know there are times when I fail to have the strength to look at you.
But please —
understand that my past and the paths I have taken have misled me or led me astray.
This has caused me to react in ways that left me ashamed.
Also, you are far more beautiful and impressive than you believe.
You are like the presence of Goddesses, all of them.
You are like Andromeda, Aphrodite, or beautiful like Calypso, daughter of Atlas, and thus, I am like Odysseus; whereas, I am detained by you on an island like Ogygia, weak, humble and at your service.
But this is not Greek mythology, and I am not born from a Titan . . .
and neither are you.
I have no power.
My rations are few.
My wounds are many,
but the wars are over, at least to me.
Come look at the stars with me, please.
Lay with me now.
Please?
The Written Addiction 