within the whirlwind of starving days, sanity breaking nights and Years of white noise, there comes a certain, stamina; not one to be proud of , not one to hope for; a state of Being among the debris despite the pain, despite the Fears, in rebellion to all things Sense. It offers a tainted choice – one can refuse to try but refuse to admit defeat , instead chose to curl up with in the womb of the beast and drink the sacrificial bloods. physical lethargy becomes rhythmic, mental disharmony the soundtrack – the choice is one that sends the patient down a road that travels not. Its static. and it offers no way out. it bridges nothing – we feel the tracks of passing life sealed over our tongues. we live among the exhaust smoke, left longing for the speed of which we are forgotten.
survival is said to be admiral. as Susana Kayson’s therapist told her – even a talent. True – survival consumes everything, is everything, and shadows out anything else there is to touch. It might be a talent, and people might applaud the will to stay alive.
But …. survival has taken lives. Its taken a large slot of mine, and threatens to steal more away as the waves crash harder each day. when I am surviving , i am not living. Those lucky ones whom live … they don’t need to survive, their breaths of ear and whispers of sanity will keep them afloat, and in the face of tragedy, survival as a state will remain temporary.
To my fellow Survivors, the one’s like myself whom are condemned to a life learning how to hold on; a life where survival is all there is Hope for. I shed a tear for you, and I Hope indeed, if nothing more, you can find a way out of survival – and learn how to … Live.