If betrayal was a compass, leading me to a place in which freedom of heartbreak would greet me, I would walk through knee high deep snows, rugged steep- life threatening- mountains, sloshy gripping mud, and cross the most rapid of streams to get to that place. However, I am in need of solitude. I am in need of a security that can only be brought by the divine. I have rested in the arms of man, but they are not the arms of the absolute. They are the arms of the maybe’s. They are the arms of the could be’s and the think so’s. To rest in and assurance, obedience, and omnipotence. It is beyond my control. Secrets and lies. Lies and secrets covering me like a parcel to be shipped away with a no return address, to be lost forever. To be missed by no one. Is this my fate, my date, my undesirable actuality? No, it is the average life of the average woman, living in the average time of a broken world. Is there a hope? Of course there is. There always is. Truth must rise from the ashes and bring the darkness down into the lake of black things, like hatred, loneliness, shame, bitterness, and death.
Image Credit: The song of the Lark, by Jules Breton
This betrayal hit me in the face. I could taste the blood in my mouth as I drove away from the tennis court. You standing- defeated and caught, with your shoulders weighed down by the hopeless guilt. The “not wanting to hurt me”, but knowing very well it was going to be a painful road to recovery. The charcoal tennis racket in your hand was a symbol of the anger and hatred of this situation. Staring back through the reviewer mirror, I made my escape from the humiliation and from the Emo girl with the fake English accent. Her blood rush, head rush, hush –hush, next crush, crushed me against the wall. A wall I thought no longer existed, resurfaced itself as a bridge. A bridge like the patriarchal artifact destroyed in Remagen, no longer to be in the shadows of the Rhein, but to be exposed as a sign of hope, hope that comes after a cruel battle. I drove stunned. I was lied to. Deceit the wicked foe! I shouted. There were so many questions left open for me that September day. A 9-11, however the answers were written underneath the bridge, as fragments and debris washed about my ankles. Pain is a puzzle to solve and a puzzle to step over. A ghost, a figure from your past, was what I became that day. You said you knew me, because I was so much like you. But if you really knew me, how could you lie right to my face?
Image Credit: Max Liebermann