They say that as you go along,
you learn to sit with it:
with the sadness,
with the hopelessness,
with the trauma,
with the terror and the horror,
with the nightmares and flashbacks,
with the memories.
I have been told,
that the sitting gets easier,
that you can listen to the story,
within the story,
like some sort of Jedi mind trick.
That you can sniff out,
the trail head towards redemption;
a bloodhound in the darkness,
bounding through the fog of memories.
The sitting continues,
day in and day out,
yet the sitting is never the same,
the themes, the plot lines, though,
seem to repeat,
sparkling around the room,
a mirrored disco ball,
of dysfunction.
The sitting today,
fresh and plump,
of excruciating pain and shear agony,
of torture,
of madness growing in the depths,
of anger in the bowels,
retching forth with each syllable,
and sitting,
I reach out,
and attempt to pluck,
the words out of thin air,
in a feeble attempt,
to make the bleeding stop.
