Lately, I have been indulging far too much in being disgusting. I revel in drowning in my fermented feelings. I have a problem. An emotional addiction of sorts. I peek and repeek into Pandora's box of secrets and rub the ashes within onto my skin and arms, like some kind of ointment to reopen my wounds. As they blister and weep, I grab my proverbial pencil and try to carve out this feeling before I wake up and forget.
I remember one time I was watching a documentary or reading an article or something about a therapist who interviewed refugees who relocated from Haiti after the Earthquake to help ease the trauma of relocation and it's potential negative effects. The interesting thing was, most people's 'problems' had nothing to do with the trauma of losing their homes or relocation, they were about love and relationships. Even in the face of such great adversity, the thing that was most on people's minds was love.
It was surprising, but not at all surprising in a way.
It was surprising, but not at all surprising in a way.
