Wishful Thinking

I believe in wishful thinking. I believe the fabric of the universe can coddle and nourish the will of a person in order to shape or reshape their heart and desires for their greater good. I believe we can use the tools we are given to get a job done while still knowing our limits and trusting our bodies. Morals, as some might call them. These are things that we learn and shape our lives and minds. Experience and word of mouth guilds us through the most difficult of situations with more data being added to it on the other side. For example, I was told from a young age to let time run its fingers over old wounds, to let the light shine in even when you think it might singe your skin from the strength of its warm hug, and that crying is ok and should be encouraged. It will be uncomfortable and you can’t expect it to be easy despite how much it may hurt. The world isn’t a calm or delicate place for a frayed mind on the edge of unraveling completely, and you will have to give parts of yourself away in order to pay the price of living. And this is where the morals are formed, their rigidity striking against the inside of our skulls as we pick ourselves up and continue on. Next time will be different, next time I’ll be prepared, next time will be better. 

But what about the nails left behind? You can pry them out of the wood, sure, but then you’re just left with holes, and no structure is sound with holes in its support. You run the risk of crumbling when put under the same pressure, or god forbid more. This is often where the saying “time heals all wounds” comes into use. You just need to let those holes sit with you for long enough that they heal over, like a scraped knee or a bullet in a tree. And it works, at least it does often enough we assume it can be applied over any wound and we’ll get the same result. It’s a fix I can just carry around in my pocket for future use, lathering it over new cuts and scrapes as they are added to the old ones that decorate my hands and legs. I could count them for fun if I got bored. But what about the ones that get infected? What do I do about the ones that continue to reopen despite the layers upon layers of ointment I put over it. Your wishful thinking isn’t as strong as the reality of your pain, and all of a sudden you’re strangled by the fear of not knowing what to do. How do I fix something I wasn’t prepared for? Time is no longer the salve for my pain, it’s the one picking my scabs off. 

Time isn’t your remedy, and it’s certainly not your friend. No amount of waiting will peel the hurt away from your heart and disgarde it. It will likely only numb you to the pain, and that isn’t healing, it’s just leaving the jar lid on. The truth won’t go away even if I stretch it out of shape. I believe your trauma is not all you are, but if it becomes all you can be, then recognizing your in need of help is the first step to reconstituting yourself. Then letting yourself be helped is the next bridge you’ll have to cross in order to fix the damage. It won’t be comfortable, and it certainly won’t be easy, but it will be the right thing to do for yourselves. And then one day I’ll be able to step into the sun’s light again and let her rays slip into the crevices of my scars without feeling them burn. That’s all I want.