Baby-Hurt

 

In a way, the abandonment of oneself is an innocent flee from a threatening scene and, ironically, back near it. We nurture the roots of our pains in little bits, continuously, in fear of them growing hungrier and more aggressive, sometimes out of a strange residue of pure and real love, pity perhaps. The thing about all things scary, however, is that they are engulfed in mystery from the inside out, a being of nothingness and a far too deep abyss. Keeping them at bay does not add up to their nature, or take from it. Such is the truth of things too damaged to have any slither of self, of origin and of any contact with soul, to recognize their vacuum effect, and that pain goes not only both ways, but every way. One's humble offerings simply aren't enough. They want your soul and beyond in exchange for theirs. 

The question arises: how to escape such a blackhole? 

You do not. In your mind, your own perception of the fear, you slowly strip away the layers of majestic horror, the ones you maybe magnified when your heart was young and tender and vulnerable, and your mind confused and in need of guidance. You lay them out in their shameful and pathetic shape, reality, and you sit amongst it all until you understand why it has that much control over you, not it. Then you forgive yourself for being human. In the end your fear is one of the discarded shavings of time neglected, belonging to everyone who did not want it. You do not want it, but you will not neglect it, even when you listen to it through your own wails and not its.