Frozen water covers the roof of your temple. Water that refuses to move, mocking entropy and telling time that she couldn't care less about its minutes. Growing prouder of herself with every passing day, the frozen water remained still, knowing that one day the sun would rise and set her free to flow again, to do what she does best: bring life to everything around her.
A fire. The warmth of that spark you suddenly rediscover. A loving message from someone you haven't seen in ages, telling you that you inspire them. Because they see how you're shedding everything that no longer belongs, how you're cutting away the scraps of what you imagine your reality could be. And somehow, those pieces begin sewing themselves together when there's nothing left between them to keep them apart. When you're so deeply connected to your own spirit that looking up at the sky no longer requires reminding yourself to release your tongue from the roof of your mouth or to stop furrowing your brow. Because looking up feels natural again. Whether there are clouds, a perfectly clear sky, or the orange shades of a sunset that, now that winter is here, always seems to be in such a hurry.
A long time ago, I took my belongings out into the cold, shook off the dust, and gathered everything that was mine. And now, at last, I've packed it all up and unfolded it into a space that would have been incompatible with my former reality. Sometimes I feel I've been given so many opportunities to start over. And that's true. But having the chance to begin again doesn't mean that every possible life can exist at once. Some realities, in order to be born, require others to cease to exist. This magic, these walls, this version of who I am here, none of it could ever have existed with him. I wouldn't have been able to listen to the birds singing in the mornings. But God, how wonderful it is that there are no more screams. I wouldn't have been able to paint my kitchen that outrageously bold Cilantro Lime, which, compared to the Ballerina Tutu pink in my bathroom, almost looks understated. The mandarin tree would never have blossomed. Kobe would have remained afraid. And you would have kept making me believe I was so small that the only place I could fit was inside your armor. When, brother, if only you knew that not even the wind gets to tell these wings where to fly.
A fire. The warmth of a spark that I know, now that it's been reignited, will never die again. Because somewhere inside me, there's an infinite factory of resources. And now I know it. Especially after finally understanding how important it is to live from the inside out, rather than the other way around. To let who I am shape the world around me, instead of allowing the world, or anyone in it, to decide who I'm supposed to be.
How did I give you so much of myself that I ended up not recognizing who I was? How can you live knowing what you've done to me? But that's the thing: what we do follows us. What we've done stays with us. Even when we change homes, shed our skin, or begin entirely new lives. The joke is on you. Because if I now spend hours admiring myself in every mirror I can possibly find for my home, I wish you knew how many more hours I spend trying to cultivate the best version of myself. For me. For myself. For others. For now and for everything that comes after. And this time, everything that grows will be mine.
Because now, the water is finally flowing. And you know what? You gave me the gift of breaking me. Of leaving cracks so deep that the frozen water finally found somewhere to escape. And now that the ice is melting, that the water is pouring through, that the pressure is being released, let it explode. Let it burst through the walls of the temple I spent so long mistaking for a sanctuary. Because those cracks will never truly disappear. They'll become scars. And every single one will remind me of something I will never allow to happen again. Which should be obvious, shouldn't it? Who would ever choose to lose themselves just to have to find their way back, this time covered in wounds? Who would choose to learn how to rise only because there was nowhere left to fall? Who would want the reason for their ascent to be nothing more than having hit rock bottom? But we're not there anymore.
Now I fly, darling.
And you can keep searching for peace in every one of the thousand waves you ride. You can paddle until you're breathless, chase the horizon, stand up on your board over and over again, and convince yourself that this time, finally, you've learned how to master the ocean. But you'll keep falling as long as you mistake standing upright for being in control. Because the ocean you're so desperate to conquer possesses every ounce of certainty you lack. It doesn't need to prove its strength or invent an identity to earn respect. It doesn't need to lie about what it is or pressure anyone into believing its waters are something other than what lies before their eyes. The ocean tells the truth even when it breaks. It doesn't apologize for its depth. It doesn't negotiate with the wind to appear calmer. It doesn't promise one thing while doing another. And above all, it never stops out of fear of its own power.
You, who tried so hard to convince me that reality was something else. That I should distrust my eyes, my feelings, my own understanding of the world. Turns out your moral standards were the greatest lie of all. A bar you demanded everyone else clear, while never managing to reach it yourself. Rules you wore like armor to protect an ego too small to carry the weight of its own contradictions. And how ironic, that you tried to make me smaller just so I could fit inside something so insignificant. But I no longer have to make myself small. I no longer have to freeze to survive. I no longer have to mistake stillness for peace. Now I am the water that flows, the fire that burns, and the wings that never ask for permission. And while you keep waiting for the wave that will finally teach you who you are, I no longer need an ocean to hold me up.
Starve the fucking ego and feed your soul.
A fire. The warmth of that spark you suddenly rediscover. A loving message from someone you haven't seen in ages, telling you that you inspire them. Because they see how you're shedding everything that no longer belongs, how you're cutting away the scraps of what you imagine your reality could be. And somehow, those pieces begin sewing themselves together when there's nothing left between them to keep them apart. When you're so deeply connected to your own spirit that looking up at the sky no longer requires reminding yourself to release your tongue from the roof of your mouth or to stop furrowing your brow. Because looking up feels natural again. Whether there are clouds, a perfectly clear sky, or the orange shades of a sunset that, now that winter is here, always seems to be in such a hurry.
A long time ago, I took my belongings out into the cold, shook off the dust, and gathered everything that was mine. And now, at last, I've packed it all up and unfolded it into a space that would have been incompatible with my former reality. Sometimes I feel I've been given so many opportunities to start over. And that's true. But having the chance to begin again doesn't mean that every possible life can exist at once. Some realities, in order to be born, require others to cease to exist. This magic, these walls, this version of who I am here, none of it could ever have existed with him. I wouldn't have been able to listen to the birds singing in the mornings. But God, how wonderful it is that there are no more screams. I wouldn't have been able to paint my kitchen that outrageously bold Cilantro Lime, which, compared to the Ballerina Tutu pink in my bathroom, almost looks understated. The mandarin tree would never have blossomed. Kobe would have remained afraid. And you would have kept making me believe I was so small that the only place I could fit was inside your armor. When, brother, if only you knew that not even the wind gets to tell these wings where to fly.
A fire. The warmth of a spark that I know, now that it's been reignited, will never die again. Because somewhere inside me, there's an infinite factory of resources. And now I know it. Especially after finally understanding how important it is to live from the inside out, rather than the other way around. To let who I am shape the world around me, instead of allowing the world, or anyone in it, to decide who I'm supposed to be.
How did I give you so much of myself that I ended up not recognizing who I was? How can you live knowing what you've done to me? But that's the thing: what we do follows us. What we've done stays with us. Even when we change homes, shed our skin, or begin entirely new lives. The joke is on you. Because if I now spend hours admiring myself in every mirror I can possibly find for my home, I wish you knew how many more hours I spend trying to cultivate the best version of myself. For me. For myself. For others. For now and for everything that comes after. And this time, everything that grows will be mine.
Because now, the water is finally flowing. And you know what? You gave me the gift of breaking me. Of leaving cracks so deep that the frozen water finally found somewhere to escape. And now that the ice is melting, that the water is pouring through, that the pressure is being released, let it explode. Let it burst through the walls of the temple I spent so long mistaking for a sanctuary. Because those cracks will never truly disappear. They'll become scars. And every single one will remind me of something I will never allow to happen again. Which should be obvious, shouldn't it? Who would ever choose to lose themselves just to have to find their way back, this time covered in wounds? Who would choose to learn how to rise only because there was nowhere left to fall? Who would want the reason for their ascent to be nothing more than having hit rock bottom? But we're not there anymore.
Now I fly, darling.
And you can keep searching for peace in every one of the thousand waves you ride. You can paddle until you're breathless, chase the horizon, stand up on your board over and over again, and convince yourself that this time, finally, you've learned how to master the ocean. But you'll keep falling as long as you mistake standing upright for being in control. Because the ocean you're so desperate to conquer possesses every ounce of certainty you lack. It doesn't need to prove its strength or invent an identity to earn respect. It doesn't need to lie about what it is or pressure anyone into believing its waters are something other than what lies before their eyes. The ocean tells the truth even when it breaks. It doesn't apologize for its depth. It doesn't negotiate with the wind to appear calmer. It doesn't promise one thing while doing another. And above all, it never stops out of fear of its own power.
You, who tried so hard to convince me that reality was something else. That I should distrust my eyes, my feelings, my own understanding of the world. Turns out your moral standards were the greatest lie of all. A bar you demanded everyone else clear, while never managing to reach it yourself. Rules you wore like armor to protect an ego too small to carry the weight of its own contradictions. And how ironic, that you tried to make me smaller just so I could fit inside something so insignificant. But I no longer have to make myself small. I no longer have to freeze to survive. I no longer have to mistake stillness for peace. Now I am the water that flows, the fire that burns, and the wings that never ask for permission. And while you keep waiting for the wave that will finally teach you who you are, I no longer need an ocean to hold me up.
Starve the fucking ego and feed your soul.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario