It Thrills, Then Burns

There is a mad, reckless abandon that at some point in our lives will grip our hearts and suddenly spin our lives into places that we never thought we would be in. First, it scares us, then, as we grow used to the idea it wraps it's fingers around our heart and squeezes until we think that we want what it has to offer--this recklessness, but deep inside, does it really make us who we are? Does it really define the struggles we face, the pain we hate, the love we pour out? I have this slight feeling tingling in the back of my head that the closer we bring this sort of recklessness into our lives, the more it destroys us. A wildfire let loose in our soul. The heat thrills, then burns us; and all that is left when the fire dies is scarred and charred remains, blackened and consumed without mercy. I wonder if a forest feels achingly empty after flames have consumed it's green glory. All that is left is barren soil; but though it has been burned, it has been infused with more nutrients than it has had for years. I wonder if those of us who have felt the consequences of that recklessness, after we are charred and burned and left empty, and have determined to shun such a foe suddenly become enveloped with a certain wisdom that comes with past mistakes and pain that has touched the deepest parts of who we are. Of course, not everyone will turn from that intoxication--they are the ones who are addicted to breaking their own heart. Even though pain has seared them in the past, they are determined that what they think they want will someday turn into something beautiful. And then...here I am, caught in the middle like I always seem to be. I'm never one or the other. Some days I remember the pain of the past and I retreat into my shell of "wisdom" and careful scrutiny, scolding myself when my head turns from my path, and then other days my heart says what the heck and flings itself back into that reckless abandon. That is, until night comes when I'm alone again, and the only thing here is the ticking of the clock. A comfort when I am wise, the face of a laughing scoffer when I am foolish. My body alternately cares for and hates itself, my mind constantly switches between feeling loved and feeling so alone that it makes me want to die. And so many times I look in the mirror and hate the dullness that has crept into my eyes; I see the blotches of my skin and violently wish to hate someone or something for my pain and imperfection, while all along, the only one to blame is me. I still have control over my life even when others hurt and abuse me; I don't have to give in and lower myself to their standards, I don't have to beat myself up day after day just because someone doesn't see my worth, just because someone doesn't love me. The words echo and reverberate within me like a beating drum or a breathing monster. If you bother to look closely you will see my hands tighten against this bridge railing--see my knuckles start to whiten when the realization hits me that once again, words are but words. Once of these nights I'll no longer be able to breathe. But I've said that before, haven't I? I wonder if one of these days you won't believe me.