We have to risk losing ourself in order to find ourself. The sentence stuck to me as I was reading over some old words i’d written, because lost is exactly how I feel. More and more lost each day and slowly becoming more okay with it. At times I cling to any old security but more and more I find myself, help myself up, and remind myself that it’s okay to be lost, that in fact, it is good to be lost. It’s taking time to make sense. All of these deep changes come with a wave of confusion. Something peaceful walks with me through defying the very mind I’ve spent all these years living in, in favour of the real me that i’ve only ever seen in glimpses, that i’ve only ever been in glimpses.
Hunched up against the wall again, a stack of three pillows between the wall and the bed and my bent back, I’m seeing all the things in my room under new light. I’ve really built a safe magical place for myself to grow. Rocks line the walls and the floor, hold overused candles and form small walls surrounding groups shells. One rock stands at the end of a row of old books, keeping them upright and close together and each book is sacred to me and has served as a friend in helping me trust life itself over people’s unsatisfactory ideas about it. I hold words close and find comfort in their promise and their quiet advice, I keep going back to this poem by William Alexander Percy; ‘I have a need of silence and of stars, Too much is said too loudly. I am dazed. The silken sound of whirled infinity, Is lost in voices shouting to be heard.’