I’ve been in this Place before. It’s empty and vast. It’s not dark; just obscure. Or opaque. I’m not sure which. There’s no fear, no noise, nothing. There’s just. Absence. Of everything. In the emptiness, there is calm; but no peace. There’s no point to anything; but that’s alright. Thoughts drip sluggishly, springing out of, and flowing into, nowhere. It’s hard to write like this.
I want to write because it’s my authentic self. If I can care enough to express myself, then I can still exist. I can still come back from the Place.
You know the Place, or you’ve heard of it at least. Strange how it’s a veritable thoroughfare, yet you always travel alone through its vastness. There are many ways in and many ways out.
Time and experience have taught me some of the ways. Letting go of self is the quickest way out, I’ve found; but it’s also the quickest way in. By committing my whole self to step outside of myself, I can achieve good, I can do good, I have done good. My mum is back at home and better than she was. I am a small part of that. I am a small part of the many worlds I inhabit. In the smallness of my small contributions, there is joy. I like to contribute, I like being small; but, being small, I can be tired, and being tired, I can be drawn back to the Place.
I have an anchor inside me. I have had many anchors inside me, but the other ones have all been made of copper. This one is made of a hormone called levonorgestrel. The copper ones have always anchored me to myself. Initially, this one didn’t anchor me to anything. It scraped and snagged me. I felt like it was tugging queasily at my stomach, dredging my intestines, clattering painfully inside my head. As the hormone pervaded my bloodstream, polluting my body and swirling through my emotions, my sleep became sporadic and now, I am anchored to the Place.
Hands reach in, love stretches out. All you need to do to connect is lift a finger. Fleetingly, an instinct stirs – is it willingness? It’s gone now – was it willingness? Maybe. Maybe it will come back another time. There’s no time in the Place. There’s just. The Place.
Π