Finding My Way (back) Home

I wonder if I’ve been living in the shadows—a place where the breathing happens, but life is more confined. Dark places have a way of keeping us pressed into ourselves, too afraid to venture in the obscure. Perhaps I’ve paused rather than outstretch my arm and feel, like braille what life was like.

I’ve kept many things close. Very close. I thought my way into believing the truth of this kind of intimacy. Isolation is cozy—a blanket, like a throw methodically strewn over me just so.

I wonder about this now—now that the years in front of me are fewer than those behind—whether I have lived the aliveness that I am breathing.

I think so.

Still, there is a door that feels unlocked, yet closed so tightly it’s stuck. Layers and layers of paint has sealed the trim.

Over. Again.

The years pass. Sunrises and sunsets fade into each other, and the gray takes from.

Time twinkles differently.

I see it now, like the lightening of things traveling fast out there in the close-distant ether where all are destined.

For now—

I must find a way to chisel through what has been painted over. There is a big part of me there behind that unlocked door.