The past is illuminated.

Emotional damage can be a domino effect. You -- yes, you (any of you) -- are quite capable of inspiring injury simply with your words.

We, I meaning I, don't necessarily know who you are referring to, though it sounds suspiciously like me (and I've heard Carly Simon sing about this, "I know you think this song is about you"), but I suspicion that you know this quite well, and do it anyway. I will never be sure what you meant, because it's locked up in your damaged soul.

You know the significance of 'you' without a modifier, a name, a description. You know that there are lives out here you can damage, hearts you may wound, anger you may inspire. The 'you', which is replete in your discourse could be you, a piece of you, a piece of him, or a slice of her. You may be referring to me when you call out someone else who's not even a part of your story. But who really knows? Because you are hiding behind the veil of implication, setting imaginations free. Passive-aggressive in nature, your words are petty vendettas.

Whether you mean to or not, oh, am I now speaking of you or me now? Whether you mean to or not, you create these stories in your head and spin them into things that may or may not hold truth. You, which could mean me, or you, may not understand the sheer devastation we/you/I may hand off to another's being because of your/my inner vitriol and spite.

You/we/I can't come to a truce on this, you know. Is there no winning in word-salad, vomited out into the ethernet like a deck of cards? Maybe you got the Joker, but I got the Ace and you know what that means, because the Joker always looks like he's a mess.

Let's not be coy Anne Johnson and Carter Sweet --  I win, because I see the truth.

The Tempest of Change

Meferun Oya.

The tempest of change; being this daughter of Oya. I wish there was a less distant memory of a moment's peace in rest here with you. That comfortable space we once had, where both of us existed in layers of silent understanding, not mincing around the things we hadn't said. I wish to remember the times we danced, laughing as my feet stumbled to learn to follow and not lead. To lean and touch the contours of you. To laugh and see the gentleness of your smile. Time is short.

I wish that words were like paper scrolls left in the dirt, rotting in the rain no longer legible or resonating.

Like a willful child, pushing outward came to be the way it was. "It's this I don't like", instead of "so much of you is so good". Can't we go another direction? So many paths to choose, and with those choices, the wrong ones are steeply dangerous. Ellegua doesn't tell us where to go, he simply opens the options and says "listen". Certainly, my ears were not open to hearing or I would not have been on this path. Talk more, Listen more. Hear more. Talk less. Silent endurance, seething resentment. The wrong path chosen.

I wish the path were seeded, now, instead of going fallow. I wish the softness of grass and nature's beauty could wrap us up in it's blanket and take us away from what was and into what is possible.

If I were different, someone else, it could have been. It is me I am, imperfections and all. Nothing's right about me, but not everything's wrong. If I had been a sculptor I could have made beautiful things and you might have said "oh, but that is so lovely", and if I'd been a talented writer, you might have said, "I admire you for being such a wonderful wordsmith". If I had been someone else, you might have found the person you were looking for, but I was me. I am me. I tried to make me better, but all I was, in the beginning, was me. No one else. I didn't love less for being me, I hungered more for something I didn't understand was love. Didn't understand you, even though I thought I was trying. I trusted more than ever before, but left accused of less, I have no answer.

Oya waits. I follow her lead.