Monday, March 23, 2009

oposición. kampf. esforço.

Last night I had a dream that flipped me upside down.

I sit writing, hat on my head, unmatching socks on my feet, and between these two is a body full of: resistance, perseverance, determination, confusion. This dream brought back what I had flatly pressed into memory, brought back what was stored in a part of my brain labeled: PAST.Why are you back?

This past week, I have been less composed, less vertical, less steady. Opposition has rocked my stability with waves of a coming storm. It fights me. I fight back.

I see the windy haze between me and the mountains—and know: IT IS NOT OVER.

School is hard, but at this point, irrelevant to the weight of my other challenges. What is school? The story of my English major? How does modern era literature affect my writing as compared to my modern day challenges. And then, my most challenging: My Claire story.

Why is the whole world against my Claire story? It’s not theirs. It’s not yours. Why is it always pressing upon me? It is hard enough without the world, and we don't get it either.

I am still waiting for my Dad to write me a letter. This is the part where we go into PAST, and take the parts that are not flatly pressed, the parts that are scattered and neglected and screaming for attention. The parts that are The story of Dad. Some are monsters—I am scared of them. Some are only sad children, they are very alone—I am unsure how to finally ease them into resting. We take the children and the monsters from the back of my mind, and we… what are we going to do with them? I’m not sure, but we will start with words. I wait for the first letter, wondering if he has any idea what we're up against.

My firefighter is coming on Wednesday, and that is another story in itself. What is Our Story firefighter?

I am young and alive. I am full of beginnings, but some of them are so heavy. Some of them have their toes curled around my core, and their bodies stretched out from there… so that their fingers pull at my skin—aching to be seen. They want to be heard.

I am these stories, not because I chose to be, but because they were born in me.

I am Lyndsi Shae.