Writing on the wall

In which life hurts

There’s love somewhere in there.

I remember the feel of it, that blanket of trust and warmth and pride and ease. From the inside, it seemed impossible that anything could exist outside the golden globe.

But I’m on the outside now. And I can’t find a path back through the purpling bricks of disappointment and hurt. A wall started stacking the minute disillusionment hit, the minute I slid out of the golden bubble. Each brick whispers a memory, and as I brush my fingers against coarse surfaces, those jolts of remembered pain rip their way back in. 

And I jerk back from love.

My body built those bricks in response to threat: each one shaped around grit that would have scoured my heart raw. Each one is a warning that this love hurts.

To get back to love, I would have to pass through these mounds of past pains, feeling them anew. 

I know that love is somewhere in there. But it might not be worth the journey.