The Spiral
I dreamt that I was falling…
spiraling out of control through the dark…
shards of a broken mirror revealed discarded bits of a life that resembled my own,
but when I looked closer, I could not find myself.
I looked for me in the back row of the theatre. I looked for me in the plastic tubes of paint. I looked and looked for me in the stacks of books and boxes of old photographs, but I was no where to be found.
Suddenly, I CRASHED.
My bones disintegrated into dust, as my mind went comatose.
I screamed for help, but there was no sound.
I gasped for breath, but there was no air.
I sleepily opened my eyes at a gentle touch on my shoulder. I could tell that she was trying to communicate with me, but the words felt foreign.
“Just breathe.”
In through the nose, as the world came into focus, Out through the mouth.
“Where am I?” I asked, squinting as she opened the blinds and the room was flooded with a bright light.
“You’re home.”
Home. I smiled and squirmed out of the blankets.
Home. The smell of fried eggs and buttered croissants filled the air.
As my feet made first contact with the cold wood floor, a chill shot through me.
My bones. Hands, feet, arms, beating heart, yes, I’m alive! But something is amiss. I feel it. In the pit of my stomach.
An insatiable hunger for communication, truth, beauty, human contact… Love. But first I need to find myself.
I’ll find me in the rehearsal studio. And in the canvas. And in the pages of my favorite books, and albums of old photographs.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this week, or month, or year.
But there’s another day after the next day, and one day…
I WILL find my way home.
spiraling out of control through the dark…
shards of a broken mirror revealed discarded bits of a life that resembled my own,
but when I looked closer, I could not find myself.
I looked for me in the back row of the theatre. I looked for me in the plastic tubes of paint. I looked and looked for me in the stacks of books and boxes of old photographs, but I was no where to be found.
Suddenly, I CRASHED.
My bones disintegrated into dust, as my mind went comatose.
I screamed for help, but there was no sound.
I gasped for breath, but there was no air.
I sleepily opened my eyes at a gentle touch on my shoulder. I could tell that she was trying to communicate with me, but the words felt foreign.
“Just breathe.”
In through the nose, as the world came into focus, Out through the mouth.
“Where am I?” I asked, squinting as she opened the blinds and the room was flooded with a bright light.
“You’re home.”
Home. I smiled and squirmed out of the blankets.
Home. The smell of fried eggs and buttered croissants filled the air.
As my feet made first contact with the cold wood floor, a chill shot through me.
My bones. Hands, feet, arms, beating heart, yes, I’m alive! But something is amiss. I feel it. In the pit of my stomach.
An insatiable hunger for communication, truth, beauty, human contact… Love. But first I need to find myself.
I’ll find me in the rehearsal studio. And in the canvas. And in the pages of my favorite books, and albums of old photographs.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this week, or month, or year.
But there’s another day after the next day, and one day…
I WILL find my way home.