The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place

Tesla said once, “Be alone, that is the secret of invention, that is when ideas are born.” 

I am so peaceful in the mornings, the only thing snoring beside me is Salvador the kitty. His face soft and purring on my skin, snuggled under blankets. I’m learning to wake up grateful, wake up strong. Not at four in the afternoon, shaking and sweating, tears rolling down my eyes until I got another line.

It was July 31st when I flew to this Atlantic Island. So excited to get away from Toronto smog, from drugs. I guess the more you push something away, the harder it will smack ya in the face. My whole problem for a while was that I was feeling too much, I’d fall in love like a lovesick buttercup. I’d cry and get so high and walk along bridges over the St. Clair ravine secretly dreaming what it would be like to just jump into that sea of green.

Never to be seen again breathing.

I’d break my own heart, pouring myself into people who didn’t see their own value, let alone mine. I’d get drunk and in fights and have bruises all over me, not understanding if he hit me or if I just fell on something or…

Then there was anger. A silent screaming within me, “Plastic city, plastic people, plastic money.”

And when I got here, I was in pain and I just wanted to suppress it with a fake love and a manufactured high. It was only two days since I’d met him and he cut me a big fat white line, “It’s not quite cocaine but it will feel nice.” He showed me an abandoned paper mill and only now do I see the metaphor.

Here is where I came, afraid of being alone, to let my ideas die. A pseudo suicide. 

I’d never snorted painkillers before, I had no idea how much I’d be begging for more. I ran away to find myself in a cage. Crying and fighting and drinking everyday. Needing a high I couldn’t get anymore. Chasing the dragon’s tail means it’ll never be the same buzz as it was before. 

It took me a while to forgive myself. To learn to love myself again after experiencing so much rage. To relearn the art of silence, of writing, of healing from within. Life is a practice of balance. I had to reteach myself the pleasure of eating, of family, of moving. 

Nothing lasts forever, our only consistency is change. Grow. Learn. Pick yourself up and fly like the Phoenix watching the ashes of your history, your story, your suffering fall away from you. Let yourself breathe and be here, right now, a symphony of experience. The snow blowing by the window, the music playing softly, the smell of lunch slowly roasting. 


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