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  • Secrets, like flowers buried under the snow, eventually rise up and push their way through the light. Edgeless, made of coloured light ~ beautiful, mindless aches ~ they unwind their spiral arms, and gulp the darkness. Secrets bend our minds to unanswered questions with their cruel and prodding fingers of light. Like a mist closing in on an army of wraiths, they engulf ~ a fist closing around a heart. Those of us who harbour secrets have succumbed to a power which can break beauty. Beauty, which, like spun glass, shatters often and irreparably. Beauty, which, like a frightening fissure deep in the bowels of earth, explodes and bleeds into the thundering darkness.

    Time limps like a thief pierced by a hundred arrows and wounded beyond survival. As I wait I wade through the mercury of grief, compelling myself to walk through my thoughts which lay piled up like smashed glass. Guilt flickers here, blasts into my mind, becoming an unbearable weight, prowling, clawing its way out of my head, and into the very marrow of my bones. Light spills, tumbling shadows across the threshold that separates reason from madness. Like a moth sucked into the thrall of a great flame, I come here, to this place, to wrestle my demons, to try and reason with the impossibility of certitude and the volatility of words. I live in this stillborn world, a half-creature, suspended between past and future, where knowledge becomes pain, serenaded by singing fear which moans like a stricken soul. And, here, here it all begins.

    I feel raw and erased, like a newborn. Like a newborn, I can’t remember how I got here; I just know that it hurt, like sandpaper rubbed against a raw and raging wound. Suddenly, the light got turned on, shattering and splintering the darkness, which had become a comfort, my comfort. What I cannot see, cannot hurt me. What others cannot see cannot hurt me. I had secrets; so many, that they wove themselves into a tapestry which cloaked me, covering up my naked shame. Eventually I could no longer discern where the tapestry began and where I ended. I became my secrets, dreadful, dreadful secrets. And worse, I had forgotten how to remember.

    Rehabilitation is a cold, clinical word for remembering, for the pain of remembering what transpired before the forgetting. Rehabilitation means travelling through a frightening light, a light that illuminates naked shame and ugly memories. A light which smashes secrets into splinters. A light which purges the guilt that has long flowed inside me and held me together like blood. Light can break the darkness. Truth can break lies. What can break the light? What can break the truth? Nothing. That’s the most painful reality of all. One simply cannot un-see or un-know. This fact makes rehabilitation cruel and unforgiving. And above all, necessary.

    image credit: val.pearl
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