The Pen And The Pain

They say we write our own stories... our lives and the events which take place and unfold. Where is the medium... on what do we write? Is it cellular, in utero, the traces and creases in our hands... it's the flesh, to be certain, as it always was. The ink which scribes our paths, be it tears, sweat, or blood, is endless in quantity... secreting at the times of elevated emotions, we write in automatic trances, unaware of our choices and their destination. When and where are left as mysteries, it doesn't remove our responsibilities tied to the ink and wrinkled parchment... no choice is still valid in the end, in the world of nothingness, nothing must be something. You chose to hurt and suffer, just as I have... it was part of the arrangement and the terms are past discussion. We remember not, the origin of the first note... but it was our thought that birthed it into reality. Now the pages flow, day after day how furiously we write... each action provoking the next chapters ahead. We can live our lives aimlessly, thinking not of our scribblings and character... or we can choose to reflect on those past events and use those thoughts to pen something new for ourselves. Being aware is the first part, and some may say the hardest... wiping the crust from your eyes and looking at one photograph at a time. For myself, the following is more difficult... reading what has been written. The shame, the fear, regret, silence, isolation... accepting the things we have done and deciding to move past them. Even harder still, would be the implementing of change... to dwell deep enough inside ourselves to find the courage and strength to steer our lives on a better path. Some say no man every changes... and perhaps that's correct. I haven't changed, despite the suffering and sorrow of my actions, I sit here still buried in grief and disdain. I am aware, as some of you, yet my heart and mind can not forgive the mistakes of yesterday... keeping me tied to the whipping post of self. I must move on... stop reading the ridges in the flesh and pen something new. We need to step outside ourselves and remove the cracking walls of shit and ash... the earth and my ankles have been one for far too long. Can you set aside the chapters of year washed away? Can you find the strength to stand free and rattle your cages? If so, then tell me how... for you are far better than I. The I and We of me... and all the things that it could be.