Ocean's Waves

Life in Freedom, Joy by Choice, Love Unrestrained


June 2018

The Shack

The shutters rattle and slam in the wind. Rain pours through the cracks in the roof. The drab grey interior of the shack is only made more miserable with the addition of a puddle on the dirt floor.

I shuffle my body into the driest corner. There is nothing to sit on but the floor. I sit in the dirt with my back resting against the corner. Not much of a shelter but the storms outside are unrelenting. I am damp, not quite drenched through. I was buffeted by icy wind and cutting sheets of rain. Exhaustion makes the dank interior feel almost welcoming. The leaky roof and muddy floor are a grey, lifeless refuge from hurricanes.

I can’t stay here but I can’t go back into the storms. Sitting on a dirt floor with an ever encroaching puddle is preferable to a gale force typhoon. Hurricanes rip at my refuge. I accept what little comfort the shack provides.

I call the shack numb. Numb is a dry spot in the corner of a flimsy shelter which blocks out the worst of the storms and the best of the light. Numb, a roofless shack in a hurricane. Curled up in the driest corner is the best and worst anyone can hope for.

If I get caught in the emotional storms, the color bleeds out of life and I breathe in lungfuls of water. Without numb, I collapse into myself. The screams in my head are overwhelming. Searing pains rip through my chest. Every neuron lights up with anxiety, anguish and grief. All the darkness shoved down, boils through my synapses. A rip tide of emotions can pull me into the darkest crevasses.

To escape, I crawl into the shack. I like numb. I hate numb. Numb is too much and never enough all at once. Numb is better than the feelings I can’t process; feelings better buried under bravado and dismissed.

Numb however, is a temporary shelter, not a place to take up residence. Every storm ends eventually, but sometimes it rains night after night. Though it may feel as though hell has a sub-basement and I should unpack and move in, one day the storms will end. The sun will shine again. Though it may be stilted, stiff and hesitant, my feet will carry me out of the shack where I can see light again.


The Remains

Each footfall fills the air with dust and ash as I wander through the remains. Ash makes my gasps acrid and dry as I try to fill my nostrils and lungs with air.

I didn’t set the fire. In spite craving the warmth, I tried to stop it. I knew what fire could do.

Fire destroys life with light and leaves charred darkness behind. Fire consumes the color of beauty with heat and abandons ashes in its place. Flames of brilliant light and radiant warmth followed by the cold, crumbling, black and grey remains.

What once stood a house of love with a foundation of trust, is ashes of disrespect and betrayal. I had nothing but a torrent of tears against the determination of an inferno to burn. My tears meant nothing.

My hope of salvage was to suffocate the fire by not giving it anything else to burn but I was too close and knew it too late. I was too much and not enough and the fire burned with vengeance. The fire was fueled by the wounds which came before and it burned what I was, would have been and could never be.

For all the agony of the burning, it is not within me to hate fire. Fire craves creating the warmth and light but once the burning starts, fires are driven to self-destruct. I saw it coming, I chose to stay and fight the blaze for a time but like the love I gave I burned to ashes.

There is nothing left to build and nothing left to be said or done but leave what remains behind.

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