by saracrolick


Come now, Little Child. You mustn’t be so shy.

These words, these words, these words used to excite and free you and now they’ve put you in weird corners in odd positions thinking impossible thoughts that never can serve you (I promise).

Because words that serve you open you up—until your insides are on the outsides blinking thoughtfully into your own teary eyes. They’ll gaze into the universe that is those wild hazels and you’ll feel the sensual hum of a job well done, of a something that’s shifted. Words that serve you make your skin tingle with yesyesyes, the electric pulse of doing the thing that makes you feel most alive, the thing that makes every cell scream “oh, hell yes. it’s fucking go-time.

When all of this happens, the un-serving words are very-nearly banished to far-away places—for they are conservative and stiff and dislike the company of swearing cells. They’ll march off in less radical directions with un-serving heads hung low.

You’re tired of it already, and who could blame you. You’ve gone up and down and up and down and upandfuckingdown. But you mustn’t be so timid.

Split in half. Split and pour out of yourself like you mean it, like your life depends on it.

Your life depends on it. 

And when the doctor comes to inspect the damage you’ve done, he’ll say “there’s nothing I can do here” and he’ll clasp his leather bag and march out your door and back into the world of un-split humans—the humans he can help.

Then you’ll realize it’s done. It’s done and it’s real and you’re not turning back. You’ll stand there, alone, in the middle of the most remarkable disaster you’ve ever seen. You’ll stare at all the recently-inside you words painted across walls and spilled onto floors and dripping, dripping from your trembling fingers. You’ll sway, still out of breath, still distilling the prognosis in your liberated heart; but you’ll know deep-down that everything is exactly as it should be—that un-split open doesn’t serve you any more than those un-serving words once did(n’t).

You’ll exist somewhere between that place of “I can’t help you” and “I can help myself.”

Welcome to Splits-ville.


[image: julie loen on pinterest]