I'm so, so, so sleepy. Something about a concussion yesterday or something. Who knows. But I can't sleep. Because too much has peeled my eyes today, and my eyelids seem afraid to close again. Afraid of the inching dark of turning a blind eye to all the wrong things.
So I'm listening to a lightning storm, and learning about destruction as a means of creation from this little gem.
Each page comes with instructions. Ideas for how to tear it apart, break it into pieces, spit on it, tear it into strips, color the entire page, paint a picture with your coffee. It screams at me to do anything, to drop it off the roof in the rain, and by the low lights of my own gumption it is beautiful. While I gather my breath and listen to the lightning outside and I survey the ravaged plain of all I can't manage, throwing a perfectly good book out the window to make a collection of my damages seems like a screaming beacon calling my scrambling hope home. It seems like a strange thing to cling to, but hear me out
The family I was born with is damaged. The battle between innocence and angry fragmented humanity has come to my door step yet again and I am charged with a bleak attempt at tipping the scales in favor of the only side which allows for healing. I cannot stand aside any longer. And so I will break the thing I cannot break, and fall headlong into the wispy hope that the piece that must be saved will survive the collateral damage and blossom into something more than the sum of countless generations of convoluted survival; that the piece will thrive.
So, in the face of these things, in the breath between decision and acting upon that which I know I must do to live with myself, I am grateful for a small black journal which promises that sometimes creation is only bourne forth through the rubble by destruction.
P.s. i need blog beautification lessons. any volunteers?
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