I read a post in a supermarket cafe this midday. It almost had me weeping. I’m getting a bit better at not doing so in public. But even so, I almost went and did.
You can find the post in question here.
Its winding tale is summed up by this phrase:
Surrender is expression not suppression.
Now my life has clearly become a battle of wits, and all I want of life is the wit to be loved. And when I say loved, I mean not just that kind of love which is burnished and proud, and never needs to speak itself out loud: and that love is fine, and maybe enough for many. But the love I really need, on top of that love, is the love which involves a person I love wanting me physically; finding me good; seeing my being as something they’d find so essentially attractive they could spend a whole lifetime not knowing exactly what I was.
But even so, even then, even in confusion, still being able to pursue the tail of the tale of my lifetime, and thinkings and beings.
To be in the physical presence of a person that physical: to be able to transmute my love of the world into the golden silences of skin upon skin … to that I would surrender in the way we could surrender: not as a giving in or a giving up but as an entreaty – a delivering – of oneself to another: yes, use me as you will – I trust you that much.
And I don’t want any more to hurt myself with people who see myself as something which physically repels – which disgusts – their very being. And I know it is hard, and I’ve spent such a long time, and I’d love to find out, and I’d love to know why … and more than anything I’ve ever wanted, I’d love to be able to help … but if a person, a being, a human of social love, is refusing to help themselves, what else can I do? Where else can I go? Who else can I turn to?
Who else knows enough to square the circles I find above me, of awful vulturing realities which soar and fall and drop to carrion – like stone thrust onto an unforgiving savannah?
That’s how I feel; that’s how I’m living; that’s how much I’m needing another way forward. For any way which repeats the past is destined to repeat the past. And either way, suffering shall ensure. And either way, I’m in the grip of a fate I claw with tooth and fight. But the fight and tooth I have chased madly to date is clawing my soul from my body and heart.
I surrender my all.
Not because I have no choice.
But because I want to be free. And that freedom is me. And if I am to properly surrender, and that surrender is to render me a different kind of lifetime – in the time that is left of the lifetime that is left me – then let it not be a lifetime where rendering rends an end.
Let it, instead, be a lifetime where rendering rends a beginning …