So I’ve put a post or two behind me, because I’m trying to move forward. The past year has had a tendency to keep me paralysed, feeling isolated in a world I barely recognise. The more I look at it, the more I’m sure that I don’t recognise it because it doesn’t exist.
I’m far too in love with how it feels to be swept up this way.
My fingers fly across the keys. My mind works too quickly for them, dropping words and skipping over them. I cannot go back and find them yet. Not until I calm down. I cannot take my eyes off the page, I cannot leave it until it lets me go. Exhaustion pulls me down into sleep, and I claw my way back to the words as soon as I gain parole. Everything else is a fog. The structures I have laid down with care. The skeleton is there. Now I race over this skeleton like a frantic spider, weaving fast enough to capture light sparkling in its hollowed eyes.
A while ago, I posted this picture, because when I make cocoa with marshmallow, I really make cocoa with marshmallow.
That’s not a joke, either. Boiling marshmallow in milk has been a tried and true remedy since, well… As far as I know, since people have been boiling milk! Althaea plants have been prized for their healing qualities since time immemorial. The amateur alchemist in me couldn’t resist giving this one a shot, and I’m glad I did.
I have a confession to make.
I didn’t think I would get here.
It’s been a year since I scribbled in this thing. My head hasn’t had a chance to be full. It’s been emptied out by anesthetics and opiates, as bit by bit I’ve faced down a lifetime of scars.
This is the story I won’t tell.
(Just allude to now and then.)
If you haven’t heard me say it before, here’s a fun fact about me. My life is an insufferably trite narrative. I will never write an autobiography, nor should anyone waste the time inking my tale. If it were a novel, I’d throw it at the wall, then burn the wall. That’s my favorite way to express it, so that might ring a bit familiar to some. I’m a hopeless stereotype, a Tragedy Ann loaded with heavy-handed metaphor. There are soap operas that wouldn’t stoop to the kind of insane, idiotic allegory and clumsy irony that my life describes.
So when I say that I have been digging the scars of a lifetime out of me, I am being entirely literal in every way. The pain I’ve been through– the damage, the deprivation, and even the emotional agony, have been driven deep into muscle and tissue. There they sat, slowly forcing the life from me. It’s a genetic curse, aggravated by stress and long-past neglect– and it has been driving me down harder the more I’ve fought it. There’s no cure, and for a long time there wasn’t even anything I could do about it.
Then there was.
Right about when I had the least strength to deal with it, suddenly there was.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
People like to quote this as though it means that no matter how hard they try, they are simply helpless to the evils of the world. They take this to mean that no matter how good one’s heart, one way or another it’s all going to hell. They use this to deflect their ruinous actions and paint themselves as victims of the consequence. The hell in this case being the destruction they leave behind.
I take it another way. I think the road to hell is paved with good intentions because of the way people use them– as a blanket justification for any action, no matter how irresponsible. I think the road to hell is paved with good intentions because they drop off and are ground underfoot by the people who wrap themselves in these intentions as a defense– a chintzy suit of shiny tinfoil armor donned by the self-righteous. I think the road to hell is paved with good intentions because the only people who carry them around and flaunt them were already headed in that direction.