I drag my hand across the surface of my skin, and hold the feeling place of gentleness. I remember the pain of the past, the wounds and remnants of marks and identifications. I cry about the wounded hearts in the world, the unsettled vigilantes who bleat for betterment of society. Yearning churning hungry stomachs clutched by grasping hands… The somber destitution makes the idealized imagery look vain. There is a rift between what I know, what I see, who is there staring back at me. I have permission now to move beyond cycling in the problems of my own and others. There is an opening here that tells me I can move beyond obsession, fixation, and compulsion about what isn’t working here. I am free from living in this petrified state of fear that leaves me broken shattered alive, like a walking zombie. If reality is so fluid and flexible, it is high time to start wielding my creative energies for solutions in my life and focusing on such in society.
“Victims are violent people”- Byron Katie