“The strength of a woman is not measured by the impact that all her hardships in life have had on her; but the strength of a woman is measured by the extent of her refusal to allow those hardships to dictate her and who she becomes.”
― C. JoyBell C.
There is a darkness that dwells close; hinted at the corner of the eye. Shadows cast by the sun are expected, but not the deeper spot that sometimes throbs from the center; a black hole that sucks in the light and gives nothing in return.
Questions rising—self?, others?, why does this ghost pursue? It has been conquered, it’s remains imprinted for no other purpose than the reminder of hell’s bells tolling within memory—nothing more than a reflection in the liquid mind. It is a juxtaposition of scars shaped in a puzzling form that is sometimes forgotten but ever remains—ever reminds–a phantom itch of a limb long gone.
There are ruts in bone deep memories that can catch me unaware; dry, dead ruts that no longer serve a purpose. Caught scratching something that doesn’t itch anywhere but in reflex, I turn my head quickly, hoping to catch that shadow, to see it fully, to become aware.
And that black hole, no longer real, no longer mine, a mere fragment in the boneyard of my history, lovingly owned and laid to rest.
30 days of night, anyone?
Summer jams…..top down….starry skies