Of suitcases

Sometimes … Sometimes I wish I could divest myself of feelings.

Joy.

Sadness.

Pain.

Love.

Despondency.

I wish I could pack them up in little suitcases and store them somewhere I couldn’t see. So I could forget. Out of sight, out of mind. So I could go about my daily doings unhampered by baggage and concentrate on what is needed and what must be. And what must be is for me to move on. Forge ahead unheeding of whatever losses I might have accrued and look for more to gain.

Companionship.

Safety.

Security.

Balance.

It’s a dicey affair, having to balance between what is necessary and what is desired. More often than not, I give way to others’ wants and needs and leave myself bereft and unfulfilled. I wished I could say I’m an altruist but no … I just prefer to let things slide, unsaid.

In a place where words have the power to break, heal, mend or even destroy I find myself bound by silence. A winter garden that awaits for spring’s thaw. It might be beautiful. It might be perfect. Yet it is a perfect beauty defined by its solitude. 

And I crave – paradoxically, it seems – society.

And society demands things I could never give freely. All the baggage that formed me into what I am are too fragile, too precious, too private – too painful – to share. Perhaps with losses and gains I find myself teetering on the edge.

Whether it is on teetering on a fine balance or on the edge of a cliff remains to be seen.