Changing House

I write these words today because it compelled me to assert that I am, in fact alive.  Now. I hold no notions of a devoted audience pining for my return. 

But it’s a funny thing... I do not measure my life by the number of breaths I take. But in the words I write. Every stroke of my pen becomes pulse. And I live, safely tucked in between the lines. Paper walls and bricks of ink. 

I built this place syllable by syllable, rhyme by rhyme. Carved out a window to let in the sunshine. My tears polished the floor. My joy painted the walls a brilliant pink shade. Out of my laughter I've sewn curtains, that flutter just so, whenever the wind blows. 

And when the rain comes as certain as the sun, out of faith I have built a roof. My door leads to anywhere I choose. I am never late and I am never lost. 

Once... this was my entire universe, yet slowly it is shrinking. Or maybe I'm the one who has grown, no longer fitting. In the only home that I've known.

Something came over me, then. Heavy and unfamiliar. It tore through my curtains like a violent wind. It stripped every room bare, it took a blade to my walls, once dependable and sure. 

It was me of course. Stretching, bursting, arms wide, head high ...I couldn't hold it any longer. A wail begins to tear through me. 

It hurts it hurts. But how beautiful it burns. I'm tipping over the edge of the world. All the colors begin to blur, the earth ceases to twist on its axis. 

I am new and I am old. I am dim, I am bold. I am so little and much too great. Its blinding, what awaits my fate. 

When the dust has settled, I finally understand. I once thought I was pregnant with possibility, something bursting, stirring within me. It is then that I see... 

Possibility is pregnant with me. These walls were womb, this home a tomb. And I am growing too quickly, the house contracting. 

There is life wrapped in death. It is only once this cage is torn that I can be reborn.