When the body speaks
I am stuck in a body whose permanent revolt is turned inwards, spewing acid all the way from the esophagus to the stomach. Gastritis the revenge, is back to destroy what little tranquility is left. Sleep, as elusive as ever, teases me with the sweet surrender of dreams that have long been forgotton...
As new beginnings unfold and fresh opportunities await, shadows of an unfulfilled soul lurk nearby, refusing to be still. Unless they are resolved, they will linger and pester and fester and turn into a malignant growth. They will haunt me and absorb my energy, my faith, my hope, my life. They will plunge me in despair.
Oh body of mine, what tale do you tell, of a woman who's in, well over her head? Or is your prodding and nausea a stark reminder of being left behind, untended, while other things were pursued?
When the body speaks, even the mind will be silenced to listen to the secrets it spills, for it is the stress-ometer, it alone can reveal what we often do not want to admit, what we had ignored, what we thought would go away. The pain is not painful but a chance to fix things, to become a better person.
You have my attention now, I am listening, but please, speak softly... whisper, what's going on?
How ironic. We never seem to outgrow bad habits accumulated over the years and honed with a scary precision... Especially the habit of trying to politicize any initiative, color it a certain way, and hide from it.
Maybe the recent war has provided enough food for thought to set rampant such aspirations... Everyone is appropriating the events and turning the war into a vehicule for self promotion...
However, we are in big trouble if we haven't learned to look beyond the appearances by now... There is a bigger potential to tap into, an opportunity to delve into the humane, to put faces to the people who bore the brunt of the war, the apolitical lay person who was affected: mentally or physically or financially.. The person who is now picking up the pieces of a fragmented existence, trying to make sense of it all, to make it work...
People like you and me, people who are reaching out, people who want to make a difference. Judged for not being with some political figure head, as if somehow my identity is correlated to this or that. How can you take a political stance from an apolitical person?? Or is that a statement in itself? This is why our voice needs to be heard... through blogs and other methods, so the silent majority, once overwhelmed can stand its ground and help shape the future, and color it with the untainted freedom of expression.
The puppet master pulls the strings and directs the path traversed by a subdued puppet whose silent head bobs up and down.
Beautiful puppet, yanked back and forth, you might as well be a spectator of the show; you know not what will happen next, cannot forsee the plot... all you know are the confines of that box... You are in your controlled environment: the stage your border, the fake clouds your sky... Boundaries within boundaries reinforce your fear, you exist to entertain, but not to think.
And one day you realise that the strings once taunt, lie limp by your side as you lay in the dark, and you push them aside, you try to stand up, you are filled with enthusiasm, even though you might drop! You raise the lid, take a look around, and notice the stage has disappeared.
Puppet no more, but limp object none the less, you look around and take in yourself. You are finally free, you have found your release, and even though the future seems bleak, you can't help but peak. The puppet you once were, now the writer you've become, dictating the path you want to run down.