When my heart tells its tales, she speaks thusly…
The continent of my interior is vast and on certain planes of reality, limitless. I am the secret head of her world. She suffers from the same illusions as any other being, believing her mind crafts the path before her feet. But she is wrong. I am Queen in this story. Sure, from time to time, the thinking machine between her ears gets the upper hand, though never for long these days.
I pulse through every vein demanding her attention. Have learned all the secret ways to turn her ears inward so she can hear the rumblings of my Truth.
Once upon a time, it wasn’t like this…
Growing up a lost girl unmoored her from my shores. She believed me fickle, unreliable, too emotional, disruptive. Trust eroded as surely as a coastline succumbs to it’s watery sibling over time. She sequestered me from her consciousness, inadvertently setting herself adrift on a sea of pain.
I tossed line after line out trying to tether her to her Self. She could never quite reach them. So, I waited with the patience of one who keeps no time.
Reckoning came as it will, inevitable as death. One day she capsized inside the thick, sharp-walled house of bramble she’d built round her to keep the world out. Nothing made sense. Every loss she failed to mourn during the era of numbness, rushed up to sweep her into their great murky depths.
Submerged most of the time, words came muffled and distorted. Light hurt her eyes. That she was expected to function seemed criminal and absurd. She couldn’t even find the surface most days. One morning when her bramble craft beached itself on a sandy bar, she set fire to it. As it burned, I slipped back in around the wreckage to hold her while she howled her way through decades of pain and rage. Spent, she collapsed in my arms and slept.
I wish it had not been anguish that brought her home to me, but she is one of those steel-spined women who forges ahead, consequences be damned, until life forces her to her knees. I love this about her. Our relationship would be a flat earth, lacking in curves and dimension without her hot metal core.
Since the fire, she is edgeless in ways she has not been for a long time. Her ramrod spine grown flexible and jointed. Now she sits, head cocked slightly to the side, eyes closed, tuning into my frequency. She leans into my vastness, determined to map the breadth and depth of my continent.
I teach her how to speak moonlight. Allow her to hear stories born on currents of wind across the immensity of time. Show her small secret doors that transport her to places she could not even dream up. Spin words in a vast net round her and wait for her to be caught up by them.
I revel in the way our inner conversations form delicate lines across the crisp white landscape of a page – writing life into the inanimate. I woo her with the promise of more, seduce her further into my interior. She is past the point of return. I have lashed her to my side and will not let go again. Daily she grows into her own surrender. Wild tendrils of trust take root between us. We both breathe easier now.
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends The Universe Has Your Back: Transform Fear to Faith.
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