“Hold Harbour” – Part 2 of: The Air of the ‘dismal in the day’

…only to dodge the daily tarnish of…the self-destructive, negative, abusive, hostile, riddled creature within.  Indifferent to high-mindedness and oblivious:  it begins.

“I feel like my face has fallen away from my bones:  a trick of my skeleton.  I feel as if I’m dying of some invisible disease, a disease related to despair and resignation.  My mind has become a treacherous expedition of crushed ideals, purposelessness, and exhaustion within a magnificent and sordid world.  My shoulders feel like cardboard; unable to withstand any weight.  My eyes have retracted into the tensely pulled muscles of their sockets and the folding skin of my cheeks.”

“My eyeballs feel like someone is holding them in hands that are wringing them.  The overhead cottony clouds pay no attention to my stare.  They move freely along unconcerned.  It feels like a lifetime of tiredness has caught up with me holding me in a vice grip.  I feel the pressures of all my detractors, all those that disliked me for my efforts and aesthetic, or just because…that happiness is my pursuit and it is always being held a sixteenth of an inch away from my earnestly reaching fingertips.  I think I will die of the ramifications of nostalgia.”

She wished it to be a time to celebrate individual worthiness and a time to unify with the sacred feminine spirit.  A time to love without borders, without agendas, without reserve or hesitation.  A time to live in happiness, free of the patriarchal nonsense of original sin, and get out among all those congested, miserable, hopeless, sour expressions worn on the faces of the population and infiltrate them with smiles, radiance, compassion, and love.

Voices were clearly saying, “Do not constrain your energy, your love, your joy, your generosity, your inner wisdom ever again because of the fear that others won’t approve of you, or the fear that others will ridicule you, or the fear that others will try to discredit you, or the fear that others will persecute you, or the fear of the unnamed fear itself”.  She could see a mouth moving and halting when covered thickly with a handkerchief.

Unexpectedly she thought about how contemporary women put plastic flowers in their original gardens of sin and use shots and computer chips to discreate their periods.

She thought she…

TBC

Copyright © 2010 Nicole Rigets