I am healing.

Healing is an art. It takes time. It takes practice. It takes love. – Pavana

These wounds are finally starting to clot. The bruises are fading – purple embellishments slowly disintegrating. The twisted metal stuck deep in my flesh is finding it’s way to the surface – it hurts like hell, but I know it has to go. My skin is shed, the grey creases and sagging crevices replaced with a warm glow. Warmth is nestling into my limbs, wrapping itself around each vein. My blood is thawing and the acid taste in my throat melting, dripping the cracks of the past into floorboards and letting it drift away. It seems brighter, even when it rains – there is something calm and serene to be found in the silence of stormy skies. The heaviness in my chest is slowly, slowly lifting, letting my lungs inflate and the sweet taste of oxygen rush through my bloodstream. The needles in my heart are removed with grace and elegance, the muscles exploding with the pain, and crying with the relief that follows. The venom is filtered out, twisting through the capillaries, clenching its jaws as it greets its host with a final farewell. My mind is settling, the fog beginning to clear as the iridescent shards of light slice their way through – the pain is calming, the ache fading.

I’m not fading anymore.

Somebody told me, years ago, that you must trust in time. I didn’t understand, because my soul was dissolving in a valley of fear, and time was my enemy – it kept running away. But now, I think I get it. With time, your scars fade, your organs replenish themselves, a fracture fixes, a broken body can be stitched together with embers of textbooks and essays. Because time doesn’t stop – for anybody. But I think that’s the greatest joy. Because, if time stood still, so would the sky, so would the leaves and the wind. Broken arms would never mend, nor would the laced stitches. Paintings would never dry, nothing but tears of watercolour splashing to the carpet. And I would still be trapped in a body that was pining for death, a mind that was never quiet, and a world that was slipping further and further out of my reach. I would be trapped with my bruises and cuts, the sickness seeping through my body and intoxicating every movement.

You will doubt.

Because it’s painful. Because it’s fucking brutal and you will scream and beg for it to stop. But you can’t give up. Like a dislocated shoulder has to be pushed back into place, despite the excruciating pain it will undoubtedly entice, your body and your mind will heal. With crying, with gashes, with muscles that are weak and lethargic, with every inch of you collapsing – you will heal.

You must allow the past to break through the surface, even if it terrifies you. You must hold it in your palms in order to let it go. You must let the light transcend through your cracked skin and banish the shadows that you keep in the chambers of your heart.

And you will look to the stars and the planets and say ‘I am healing, I am healing, I am healing’.

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