Winner’s Remorse

January was full of revelations. I always knew I was being played by “The Spirits”, but finding out just how far the game went really fucking hurt. The degree to which the things I took for granted were just smoke and mirrors meant to distract me made me despondent. Whole fortresses were revealed as vain imaginings whose sole purpose was to keep me distracted so I wouldn’t cut my throat.

I can’t be mad about the result. But now I don’t know what to stay alive for.

A lot of shit got reset in January. I no longer needed certain habits and rituals to keep me safe from other occupants of the house, embodied or not. There were too many hours sitting dumbly staring at the wall waiting for someone (or something) to tell me what to do.

I had actually planned for this freedom. There was a series of lessons I had purchased prior to the move with intention of beginning them this year now that I had space, privacy, and freedom. Haven’t even loaded the website. Yoga? Haven’t unrolled the mat since the move. Serious Majick™? I struggle to remember to greet my krew, much less start to get myself entangled in shit again.

This whole week I was randomly reminded of the night I was offered three ways to die, three choices in how to live. This numbness I have felt since the calendar year turned is like the aftermath of the glass I had rejected. I feel like in winning, I have lost. In gaining my freedom, I am losing my identity.

I have so many words in me. But I am having difficulty in putting them down anywhere. I was tired of having to explain myself, tired of having to justify myself, tired of being held to other people’s standard for a magic practice that doesn’t have jacque shitte to do with me. I was tired of being the butt of your jokes. I am tired of still being dragged for other people’s assumptive bullshit.

So I hoarded my words and my experiences. But I have erred.

I have held the words back so well, that they cannot come out. The words are rotting within me, and this numbness I am wading through is the consequence. If I don’t share my experiences, did they really happen? If I don’t share my life, am I really living?

When I was offered the sweet glass that night nearly six years ago, I called it out as a type of death. No matter how “normal” my life would become after it, I would always know that something was missing, and that hole would eventually devour me.

Something is missing, now.

But in the aftermath of the move, of the escape, I am disconnected from all the things that used to work before and don’t work now. I am filled with the terrible fear that I have served my purpose for existing and that now all that is left for me to do is turn over and die.

What happens to the Child of Omelas once they escape the darkness? Can they ever adapt to the light? I feel like a deep-sea creature, adapted to the intense pressures that would crush surface animals but only holds my form in shape. I have been brought to the surface but now I am falling to pieces, breaking apart merely by being held.

I have so many words held captive within me. And they are rotting.

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