To answer the how is difficult. It happened, like how lightening happens. Be and it was. Divinity had its crucial role in it, its energy like electricity zapping through tingling tight metal wires. When realization hit, it hit so ferociously I saw it snap out: the fractured mind. Its shape was a scalp, transparent-ly pale in hue but dented in places like a soda can that had been kicked around too much. If anything, it felt like a shedding. The old plating removed to reveal the burnished new. Instead of disappearing it fell to the floor and rolled to stillness. I looked at it oddly, confused by this image that my mind’s eye was screening. I had seconds to realize what was happening. The train I was on had reached its stop and was charging to leave to the next. As the compartment urged on, I realized that this was it. It would stay there, and not follow me. The new scalp, with all its sheen would be what I carry with me. And so I looked at the fractured mind, my lips almost kissing the window as I leaned in for my last glimpse. There it stayed, unmoving. I left it at Union Station.
On a spectrum, I’ve been tossed into happy.
Long awaited but not expected, I can feel myself recovering from what has been unveiled to be a once fractured mind. As I walk now, the billowing cold air that sliced at me last winter now feels silky, soothing cinders long burnt by fire. The condition from rehabilitation is brittle, but ready. Ready at last to be fortified.
However, the whitening fear of it being ephemeral still lingers. In either resistance or pure rejection, the thought is not given air to bloom, thereby suppressed only to occasional black gasps.
The perpetrator for the trauma is still at large. Unaware. In introspection, I am as much to blame. We all are. Us, the culprits for our own sufferings, for ultimately we are the ones that let “us” suffer. No one else.
How you may ask.