It's happening. I can feel it. Just like last time. No, not just like, kind of like. I know it's the same process, but it feel different. I feel different.
There's a thread loose here that's caught on something. Every step I take, this snag unravels my seam just a little bit at a time. I have to slow down before it comes completely free and I'm exposed.
I suppose I could try cutting the thread or removing it from what caught it, but my hands are filled with the sands from my hour glass. They slip through my fingers enough as it is, I'd have to let them go to fix it. But that sand has been so precious to me and I need it just a little longer.
The stench from the swamp filth that I walk knee-deep in slows me a bit, too. I guess, in a sense, I should count that as a blessing. I just have to be sure of my footing, else I fall over. There'd be no hope of me standing again if I did. It takes enough effort to move my feet, I can't imagine what it would take for me to pull myself out of this festering waste.
There's an itch at the back of my neck, like there are grass seeds caught in the fabric of my clothes. Those clothes that I wove and dyed the fabric for myself. No one helped me create my coverings. It's all my work. All of it. And I think they're beautiful. They make the crows stare, they're jealous. So are the vultures. They have a hunger in their eyes, wishing they could have what I have. And they should envy me. But that itch! I can't scratch it. It feels like the skin is burning wherever it scratches. A burning that travels deep, straight into my heart and feel anger rise in me. An anger that will only go away when the itch does.
It won't last much longer though. I know, I've traveled this way before. Last time, I didn't understand why I made the journey. The opportunity had presented itself and I didn't see why I shouldn't take it. I wish I hadn't. If I had just stayed where I was, I wouldn't be making the trek again. But I need to. I have so much to think about while I do. What I left behind, the strength I had, the strength I shared was so amazing I didn't know what it was. The warmth I was given that was suddenly gone as soon as my feet moved toward this road. The machinations of my mind ticked wildly and harmonically, churning out notes and words and notions at dizzying speeds. They were powered by another intensity that I didn't recognize. The moment I started to walk along this path that first time I lost all of it. For what? What have I gained? What made this worth it?
I don't know if there is anything worth losing all that.
But now I walk here again. Not much further to go. Just a little bit.
And there it is.
Last time, I was awash with joy and hope and anticipation. All my own, but I forgot why I felt these things. I was washed clean. Given a new start.
Now, I am drenched by the tears I have bottled up. All the tears that never saw the day. Every droplet that begged to be let free. Every drizzle of pained heart, of furnaced rage, of drawn out sorrow, cascading down on me. Those seeds are set loose from the fabric they caught themselves in and the cold soothes me. The refuse I trudged through drains away, puddles rippling around cleanse me of the last of the muck, even the souls of my feet. As the streams form down my face, the illusion everyone saw streaks away from my eyes. The sands cannot be held, they pour from my hands and I know that this journey is over. The waves break over me and I am stripped of covers.
I have returned again to this place, clean and dry now, but it is not the same as I remember it. It is empty and unkind, barren of life. In my hand I have only a few seeds. I will tend them, same as last time, but when I get to the stage of weaving my own threads again, I get to reconsider how I do it. Maybe one day I will bring back the life that once was held here. I doubt it, but hold hope still. Until then, I toil.