Ritual ★★★★★

How about my blood? Maybe it's pretty. Maybe I'll look. See? I'm still okay. I didn't let go. Still okay to be alive.

i once tried to end my life by walking into heavy traffic. i'm particular about the verbiage because i am not someone who cries, or mourns, or suffers; my decision was made in an instant - i simply didn't want to go any further with the abysmally fractured version of life i had been swallowed in without permission or action. i no longer cared to put in the effort to find any beauty in the world, and the cancerous weight of living was metastasizing in my lungs. i was pulled away, too, in an instant.

the thing is not love that saves us, but patience. another person's willingness to stand by through the delirium and the fog with a gentility that coddles us in a warm blanket of safety, if only in phases. we're coping the best way we know. i too have a ritual, an escape route born from a basic need to take care of myself when i had no one else to. stacking rocks on abandoned railroads, dying my hair every week, convincing myself a red umbrella stands between me and all the harm the world wishes on me. please don't hate me, i am doing my best. i know that it aches like a war wound, i am doing my best. why are you still here? i told you to go.

art evolves from the need to interpret the previously untranslated beauty that exists in the world or, when we can't find it, to create entirely new beauty. i have seen and heard this several times, witnessed religion in the form of song and dogma on film. i have met someone who knows how to wait for me, and i don't ask why. i know that there's an endless bounty of discovery and love and adventure to be found in the world, but sometimes at crosswalks i still put my foot forward and embrace the wind of the passing cars against my face just to say i'm still okay. it's okay to be alive.


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