Return to Me

I stumbled upon a collection of some of my writing from many years ago. I had so much more clarity back then. To reconnect with that will require stripping away a lot of the clutter accumulated from my encounters with troubled souls in recent years. At some point, I stopped thinking aloud and started speaking to an audience. I need to forget the audience and return to my state of introspection. In my efforts to be understood, I distorted who I am in favour of inviting others in. Even now, in my contemplation of what is needed, I am addressing this to other than me.

I need to return to me. My thoughts, my reflections, my promptings, all intended to reground my soul in my space, without any need to solicit the accepting glances, or the affirming smiles from those around me. I departed from the familiarity of who I am when I sacrificed my voice for a voice that was more palatable. Am I still within reach?

The cacophony of murmurs from abandoned souls drown out the clarity that once tugged at my collar to remind me that I am. Not wanting to be, but am. Not looking for familiarity or warmth, but knowing with certainty that both resided within me. Comfortably, and harmoniously. Every sacrifice of me has proven futile for garnering the elusive embrace. It was always only enough to invite them in, but once they arrived, their needs overpowered my own, and my own self was subdued for their release.

Release from the self is liberating only if redefining the self appears within reach. Too many shrug at the opportunity of reinvention, but torture their souls into a deafening silence as they find themselves caught between hating the present, lamenting the past, and pleading for the future, but refusing to give up an inch of familiarity because to be familiar even with demons is more comforting than being unfamiliar with strangers.

To be known, I must return to knowing me. I must rediscover the voice of my soul, and relinquish the voice of my beast. The vessel of expression must once again succumb to the seat of intelligence, or else intelligence will be lost, and the basest of desires will forever remain unfulfilled. The ramblings of this madman must be exhumed from the grave of compliance and conformity and set upon this world of mediocrity without expectation of ever being recognised, but knowing that the cesspit, if it remains unchanged, did not remain so for the lacking efforts of a whimpering spirit.

Success is yet to be defined, since all that had definition was defined from a need that abandoned the purpose that feeds the soul. Such definition distracts and destroys, but never prevails. Such definition is a contamination of the purity of purpose of the soul, and reflects nothing more than the needs of the broken. I am not done. Even if this world is done with me. There is still breath left in me, and it must be expended in nothing less than sincere contribution, or no contribution at all.

I must return to me…

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