Scattered lighting cutting the skies in twos. Photographs taken from above. Tigers roaring outside my window. Tin roof hardening to every drop. It's not melodious.
It's storming outside.
It's storming inside.
There is hurt. Piercing, tearing-apart kind of pain. There is something that I built. Years it took me to lay down foundations, to place brick after brick, to mix the concrete, to knock down the imperfections. It was stable and heart-warming. I built it. I found comfort there. I found a safety blanket. I have decorated the walls with pictures, some take up the whole wall, on a blank wall I can project the movies over and over again. It is a glorious exhibition of pain.
When things are not going my way, I could always find a safe place, a so-called refuge there. I was always right. I could be proud of myself. I was in charge. No one can penetrate these walls, they have been safeguarded, they have become impermeable over the years.
I want to hold on to my building, I don't want to be left homeless after living in such mansion.
Rain or sunshine, I can continue to hold on.
Yet this afternoon, love cut through with an invitation. It was actually an eviction notice, my building will be demolished. I set my stubborn heart to chain myself to the pillars. I plan to nail myself to the foundations if the pillars are gone.
That's the storm inside, everything is being shaken to the core. I want to hold on to the comfort that I know within that hurt, I want to continue replaying the same films over and over again, I want to dust the frames around the pictures hanging on the walls.
In the most intense 6 six hour of my life, I hear the walls being torn down and I want to hold on to the rubble. Lying on the small bump of debris, it turns into ashes and flattens as I rest upon it.
Out of love, not only for the other but mostly for myself, the love letter I opened this afternoon came from Forgiveness.
