Each time we don’t say what we want to say we’re dying.
Make a list of how many times you died this week.
I lost one of my nine lives yesterday in what can best be described as a brutal failure in agency; a failure so epic that my sense of self shattered. According to my rough count, I only have three lives left. The number three has serious significance. This precious triad of lives leaves me clinging to mind, body, and spirit.
The pattern recognition of silencing myself and the weight of carrying around substantial baggage of continued failures has led me to an exploration of self. The structured process requires a public exhuming of formerly invisible somatic memories. This active participation has to mean something; I cannot afford to fail again.
Will my sense of self ever remain solid enough to capture the details I so desperately seek to express?