Getting back to where I Belong

Girl and the Rocking Chair, by Young, C. P. (C...

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by Madeline Laughs

I’ve had my world rocked pretty hard. I have no one to blame, but myself. I climbed in that rocking chair and I moved in ways to start the momentum. In the beginning it was soothing and rhythmic. It felt so safe to allow myself to be lulled into a sense of safety and just go with it. But now I think I’m getting motion sickness and every time it rocks in another direction I want to vomit.

Along the way I feel bits and pieces of myself falling from my pockets and down to what’s left of the ground. I’m losing things. I’m losing perspective. I watch them fall away, stretching my arms through the chair railings, trying to catch them. I can never reach that far though and what has been carelessly forgotten and taken for granted in my front pocket, is now lost for good. I don’t know how I’ll ever get it back unless I get off of this rocking chair.

I am not sure anymore where I belong. 

Closing my eyes as the chair continues to rock, I have been trying to reach back to the basics in my mind of what I’m made of. Isn’t that supposed to be sugar and spice and everything nice? Perhaps I never had any of those traits, because I certainly don’t feel them right now. I don’t feel sweet, or spicy even. And I do not feel nice. Not at all.

What I do feel is a disconnect.

I’m here, but I’m not and I’m there, but I’m not. The problem is not where I am, it’s how I feel about where I should be, where I want to be. I don’t know where that is either. I thought I did. I thought a lot of inane, meaningless thoughts all clouded up in the sky that is now my mind. Clumped so close together they bump against one another and clap with thunder.

It rains down on me and I rock away.

I’m focused on that faraway place somewhere off in a land I’ve been to only once or twice, but never overnight. I know this place. I remember it, but it holds no actual meaning for me. It never left an impression like the wrinkles on your cheeks in the morning from sleeping too hard on a pillow. No there’s nothing I can distinguish as being real or unreal about this land, but I know I have to go back. It pulls me back and that scares me.

To make that trip I’m going to have to get off of this rocking chair.

I know I’m not paralyzed because my hand moves up to shade my eyes from the sun whenever it decides to shine on every shadow. Bright beams gleam and snake into every dark hole and crevice and illuminate those demons I’m not ready to make peace with yet.

I need to know the truth, but I’m afraid of the ugliness that might be hiding just around the corner from truth. They are neighbors, you know. There is no truth without a little pain and sadness mixed in. I want to remain numb so I can’t feel the splinters pricking through my thin dress to draw enough blood to make me weak and empty. As long as I’m weak all I have to do is keep rocking. I won’t ever have to exert myself. I can just stay where I am. As long as I’m empty I won’t know the feeling of full and I won’t keep missing it.

But those angry pointed spines keep reminding me that I’ve rocked long enough.

I slide forward. The clouds groan and lightening strikes at my fingertips. The trial of blood and the pound of flesh left behind is slick with disappointment. The chair rocks once more and I am thrown into making a decision. Should I sway with the unbalanced chair until I am snugly back in it’s grasp? Or should I throw myself into the yaw of oblivion and hope for the best? What could be more impulsive than falling? What could feel freer?

I stretch my arms out until the tendons scream from being forced to do something I have never done. My hands reach for the sky as my fingers uncurl from the shape of the chair’s arm that they’ve held for so long. I lean just enough to look past my bare toes into the dark nothingness I have chosen to commit myself to and I close my eyes.

I jump.

Free falling, spinning, feeling my dress crawl up my thighs as my hair whips past my closed eyes. Arms like wings breaking the turbulence as I plummet downward, form the shape of the crucifix which I have been nailed to since the beginning of time. I succumb to the breathlessness. I let it take me. I let it dry my tears and close my wounds. I let it take my breath away.

The brilliant sun breaks through the darkened clouds in my mind and warms all that has been numb from the cold. I am laughing at the ticklish tendrils far below that strain to break my landing. I twirl away from them and flirt with disaster. I am not afraid anymore.

I know now.

I am finally back where I belong.

I can fly.

About Madeline Scribes

A writer with a sense of humor. If anyone can laugh at life, it's me.
This entry was posted in Artsy and Poetic and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Getting back to where I Belong

  1. Michi says:

    This reminds me of flying dreams I’ve had in the past, where I know I can fly, know that I HAVE to fly, in order to get somewhere, or away from something. You’ve got quite the poetic post here.


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