After years of affliction, hitherto a short lifetime of remorse and chagrin, my roots are planted, and not in sorrow, but in hope. My swaying sadness is just a sometimes sour affectation of my somber psyche, but it does not define me. When I've broken, I've been renewed. When my brain told me to not go on, I did it anyway. When it tried to persuade me to not love or let in again, I did. Over and over thus haven't I swelled and collapsed? And not in just one way, but many?
Of course there will be those cobwebbed corners. The stow-away compartments of dusty dreams it took so long to slough away from the forefront. Of course you'll never know the girl on stage. Of course I am a delicate woman. And of course you would be the person I would love to tell about the darknesses, the sweepy dreamy mists I hide from the daylight. The unnameable fears, the macabre romances with dead songs, eulogies of the incarnations I have been. Of course I would want you to know about the weaknesses- because I want you to know the closest to my present self as I can share.
I am not my words or songs- they are merely an apostrophe of something I maybe once had been, a veil engineered by a ghostly unseen monster of a previous swirling Fall.
I am not a wounded dove. I yearn to be loved, I long to belong. But the desperation you sense is not in the desire of the attainment, but in the wait. And that is inevitable, and nigh. Because I am whole, and giving, and open. And whoever is worthy of that scope of tenderness will meet me there.