I used to write everyday.
I filled volumes of the most important thoughts imaginable
and I was good.
I knew the world needed my words
I knew the world could be healed if someone would just hear me
imbued with the confident absurdity that accompanies only innocence.
I no longer hold journal and pen as constant companion.
No longer consumed by grand ideas of the elixir of something better.
Healing the world became dismantling systems.
Confronting ideologies that breathe oppression.
Holding souls within my own.
It’s dangerous work, loving the world.
Constantly breaking you down to rebuild you into a different version of yourself.
When fighting the battles of the world, the self becomes lost.
When it breaks, it is swift and total .
When it rebuilds, it is slow and painful.
And often, overwhelming.
And you converge with other souls on the way.
You intertwine and become whole parts
That soothe, if you’re lucky
That destroy, if you’re blessed.
Empathy and Compassion become wings that elevate.
I come to the world shattered.
Seeking the care that flows from my fingertips.
To be mended by a world so fragmented,
That I may never be whole again.
Exhausted and battle-worn,
Not weak, but tired of being strong.
Needing comfort and care that the world cannot spare.
How do we confront that which bleeds evil into the world?
How do we take up this mantel?
Acting as vessels of calm and compassion,
what happens when we break?
How do we turn our compassion on its head and offer it to ourselves?
Are we strong enough to do that?