Wednesday, 3 August 2011

The Crash and Burn

The flesh rips from the ducts that make acid tears, the burning of acid dissolves the skin, making an unidentifiable feature, a face that was loved, known and accepted as normal. Scared, disfigured he sits, staring into the world with the perfect sky, sun and moon. Wanting to be whole, together not a sewed up scarecrow, made from straw, old clothes of past and a hand sewed face that resembles a smile, a crooked smile.

Straw replaces the things that made him human, his organs, his skin, his heart. He sits, speechless, alone and silent, the being faces a live of scarcity, avoidance and awkwardness. He feels like the elephant man, a thing, an item to be laughed at, ridiculed and exploited. The crooked smile, lights up at the sight of people of resemblance, the people who knew him then, and the people who are trying to know him now, wanting his own pain to die, to burn that straw inside, that straw that makes him sad, but he cannot be selective in what he wants to burn, or he will completely go up in flames. Deciding if the full inflammation was acceptable and a viable choice, could he be selfish and let his existence and family tree burn. When he was whole and new, he was selfish, he looked to the pretty suicide, the internal war between blood and pills, the relax that ends a life rather that the dramatic exit of slits, ropes and bullets. Pulling at the strings that extrude from the straw embedded in his sadness, he tugs hard, trying his hardest to be whole again, to expel this pain that encapsulates his entire being, then he realises, it is him he is tugging and tearing apart, he is making himself less of what he was or what he could be. He stops. To deal or not to deal is what he says to himself internally. A new life is beginning, with or without his dry insides.

The crooked smile becomes straight, a glow from the teeth blinds all around him, making them see the new him, the burn in their eyes was like giving birth, and they have, to acceptance of a new him. Drawn into the energy and spirit that he beams out, filling their lives with a new view of life, a new sense of direction and understanding.

The scarecrow has risen from the ashes, like a fiery phoenix. His reinvention, his rejuvenation is still in process, moving swiftly to a higher place. A place where he is he, and she is she, complete and utter understanding for the mutations of normal life. The atmosphere and ambience that extrudes from the shape in front of them, the straw that once was the centre for a mass extinction of internal parts, the heart that ran dry, the tears that burnt, this dry straw that enveloped him, was mending itself, moving up and down the body with the acceptance as the string and the understanding as the needle, the two working together and sewing up the holes of regret, judgement and denial. The holes that made him bleed, were now whole again, the muscles and skin grew around the scars, but did not let them disappear or be repaired to the extent of the scars not having meaning or loosing their consequence to judgement and recklessness of the emotional battle within a mind. Those scars are what he keeps in remembrance of things lost and things gained.

The scarecrow was now fully formed into the new soldier of self actualisation and acceptance from within, it was a hard, painful journey, one the soldier will keep forever, he has the marks internally and externally to prove his path of self balance. He is ready. Walking out of the place he called home during his turmoil, he turns, faces the building, thanks it, looks at the chair we he sat and thought for hours on end, a place where he came to deal with himself, and try understand and help the pain and suffering of the ones closest to him. This place was one of great sacrifice and self loathing of him mentally, physically and emotionally, yet his new life was beginning again, his rebirth into society was now.

Turning from this building, his back facing past, he front facing future, he walks, head up right and unashamed. 

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