There were days
Of nights so cold and lonely,
My fingers grew numb and my skin started to ache;
Frost bit with the solitude that became an isolation so great, it bore no resemblance to the memories I had left of my childhood dreams.
It was in those nights, in the strangest smallest hours, the ones that slipped like vapors through cracks in the porous ceiling of my life, that I found myself, my true self, standing weightless and naked in the meadow of my mind, devoid of fear or shame. When stripped of my creature comforts, when robbed of my perceived sanity and safety, I was left raw and awakened, no longer comfortable being shoved in a corner like an unwanted piece of furniture.
I was unraveled, unveiled, uncoiled and waiting for the next blow to strike. In waiting, I found the quiet place of knowing, where my inner child asked for the questions my higher-self gladly answered in a soft factual monotone, the place where I was patiently parented by deeper wisdom through my darkest hours.
In that space of waiting, that space of slowly answered questions, it was there that I understood that fear wasn't the problem. That fear was nothing more than an excuse. An excuse to avoid failure, an excuse that said: "there's no need to try." It was there that even Trying held new meaning. It became obvious that trying was no longer just an attempt made in earnest, but a plan to fail, an early half-hearted 'do better next time;' an admission of ineptitude. It was there that regardless of the question; Intention was the answer.
As flames licked up the sides of the house, crawling like razors along the wallpaper, eating away at all of the grand attempts that once held the pieces together, I felt the chill break away. I felt life bursting through my veins again, fury curling my toes and washing over me in waves as I gained full awareness of the injustice I had been succumbing to for too long now. Laughter spun wildly in my center as the chains broke way and I understood I, the locker, the wearer and the breaker of those chains, was the chooser of my freedom.
It was there that I intended to leave and never come back. It was there in that knowing, that my admission of failure dissipated, and my intentions rapidly grew into my wildest dreams. Could they ever come true? Would they? With trying, no. With intention, they already were true.
All of the agreements I had made about who I was, who I wanted to be, who I could or couldn't be, all melted like wax and turned to ash with all of the other
Things Lost In The Fire.