There are grudges I have nursed for years. Kept their flames small and in the dark, feeding them occasionally on bitterness and blame, resentment and anger.
Logical Dawn? She doesn't entirely understand the Why of these grudges, some held against classmates from high school, or friends or lovers from long ago. Some grudges, held for her Mother and Father, Logical Dawn understands better.
It is a flaw of Dawn, she knows. A twisting of anger not expressed, these tiny lights of resentment. Seeds of self doubt and self guilt, nourished in the deep loam of things never said.
Dawn is an Old Soul, if you believe in those things. Her back is broad and rarely buckles. She continues to move forward, at the cost of her sanity and body, for she is a workhorse of unparalleled quality. The things she produces are exquisite creations, filled with the entirety of Dawn, poured into each word, each rug or quilt, each story. They are the beauty of Dawn distilled. She sparkles inside of these creations.
Until.
Until.
Until the quiet moments.
The quiet moments when she moves something and finds the chest filled with those resentments.
She falls to her knees and opens the chest, surrounding herself with the glory of Resentment. Bitterness. Anger. Blame. She is the white light of Fury and Righteousness. She bursts into flame. She glows.
Until.
Until.
Until Dawn stops burning, all tinder and oxygen used up. Logical Dawn can finally be heard. "What is this all for?", she asks.
Mirrored faces looking at each other, until one falls to ash.
I rise, a phoenix.
Only this time, I do not close the chest. I do not hide it away. Not this time.
I don't need it anymore.
Logical Dawn? She doesn't entirely understand the Why of these grudges, some held against classmates from high school, or friends or lovers from long ago. Some grudges, held for her Mother and Father, Logical Dawn understands better.
It is a flaw of Dawn, she knows. A twisting of anger not expressed, these tiny lights of resentment. Seeds of self doubt and self guilt, nourished in the deep loam of things never said.
Dawn is an Old Soul, if you believe in those things. Her back is broad and rarely buckles. She continues to move forward, at the cost of her sanity and body, for she is a workhorse of unparalleled quality. The things she produces are exquisite creations, filled with the entirety of Dawn, poured into each word, each rug or quilt, each story. They are the beauty of Dawn distilled. She sparkles inside of these creations.
Until.
Until.
Until the quiet moments.
The quiet moments when she moves something and finds the chest filled with those resentments.
She falls to her knees and opens the chest, surrounding herself with the glory of Resentment. Bitterness. Anger. Blame. She is the white light of Fury and Righteousness. She bursts into flame. She glows.
Until.
Until.
Until Dawn stops burning, all tinder and oxygen used up. Logical Dawn can finally be heard. "What is this all for?", she asks.
Mirrored faces looking at each other, until one falls to ash.
I rise, a phoenix.
Only this time, I do not close the chest. I do not hide it away. Not this time.
I don't need it anymore.
2 Baleful Regards:
I'd like to stop continuing old arguments in an imaginary fashion, years after the real fights were over. Those old, pissed-off memories, those ideas of what you'd like to have said, what you should have said, how unfair the whole situation was-- well, they have a real tendency to piss all over a perfectly fine present.
Here's to rising above, Dawn.
beautifully written. I've been a fan of your blog for a couple years now. I love what you write. I too am learning to let go of old grudges. I am frustrated, though, by the people who can't let go of grudges held against me. I can't control it, though, so I must move on.
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