any urge resembling self-destruction, any urge resembling self-harm and any and all corresponding actions,
perhaps it is a desire for self-knowing. did I pierce my flesh, or was I attempting to pierce the barrier between me and my core?
maybe I was done with the knee-jerk reactions to evading suffering. maybe one of the greatest forms of modern hypnosis is how we are trained to ignore our sorrow. does it always have to have a silver lining? does it always need to be for some higher purpose? does it always need a bright side, do we always have to run from it in some way or another? we don’t do the same with happiness. we don’t treat happiness like that at all. we don’t think of happiness as a stage leading to sorrow. no, we bask in it, cling to it, wrap ourselves in it like a blanket. happiness, the end; sorrow, the means.
I say bullshit.
perhaps I was just trying something, anything at all, to give the suffering a voice, purpose, intrinsic worth. perhaps I was done evading it. maybe I needed to dive into the suffering and pain fully, rather than needing to run from it, and thus, myself.
so I pierced the veil and my pain bled, free at last, free at last.
those who run from pain run from wisdom. those who run from suffering are condemned. in the sorrow I found truth. in what caused me pain, I found what my heart valued. I learned I suffered because of the ways in which I loved, and ignoring my pain was ignoring my capacity to love. putting the pain on pause was putting the love on pause, I learned they’re one and the same.
I learned I can “self-harm” beautifully, that instead of needing a literal act to spill forth my pain, I could penetrate the very core of my being with love’s razor. I learned nothing is more penetrative than love, and self-love meant letting myself hurt, cry, and express my pain. I learned a hand clasped over a mouth was the denial of love’s nourishment. I learned closed lips were a closed heart. I learned that those who resorted to a blade at the wrist were those who wouldn’t let themself cry it out. no, instead of the pain spilling from the eyes as water, as tears, instead it needed to spill from the veins as crimson.
nothing is more piercing than love
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 