You're doubting yourself while others are terrified of your potential
jump.
And now, as I find myself expanding out of the goo and into my new form, the light feels harsh and the breeze feels cold.
I look back at the cocoon I made, the one I’m so very proud of, and for once, I feel nostalgia. The place I used to dwell, the place I painted walls and hung up photos, where I sprayed lavender on the sheets and lit candles in every room.
I know every inch of this cocoon I spun for myself. I know how each emotion feels, and just how much I have to do in order to stay where I am, right now, which is so much farther than I’ve ever been before. I built my cocoon to keep me safe, to cushion the blow of heavy emotions and block out my ringing ears with thick wads of cotton. I wrapped myself tightly around my precious dreams; I held them so close to my chest I felt as though they would press through my ribcage and nestle next to my heart, drumming along to the sound of my now-steadied breathing.
I could scream as loudly as I wanted and nothing would break; I could sleep for days and be sweetly surrendered to another realm.
My incubator for the dreams I was too afraid to murmur out loud, lest the devil that is practicality should hear and drive me away in shame.
I slept so long, I returned.
I understood, clearly now, that this world, the one that surrounds me, is not enough. My desires and preoccupations are too loud to ignore the obvious truth that a low burn will never produce enough heat to keep me warm. I have to scorch the earth, become the cosmic explosion that forms a new kind of gravity.*
*I’ve always known this, but if you had asked me before to say it out loud, I would have stammered. Cheeks fuming, I would have bit my tongue.
Just for a singular moment, I wonder, Who am I, to think I can?
I think of all the times I was told to be reasonable, practical, to set myself up for success.
I immerse myself in these memories, an ice bath, until my fingernails puncture the skin of my palm and I didnt even realize I was clenching my fists. What is a life, if not lived! Why would I ever want to fall back on anything, when I could fall forward, instead?
Oh, how I have hated myself for all the times I have surrendered to the seduction of comfort, the lies and siren songs of pitiful practicality.
I don’t want to stay here, anymore.
I don’t belong in a cocoon anymore. And that may be a freakish feeling, but at least it is mine. Because I would rather be terrified, a child whimpering with her arms outstretched in the pitch black, than stand in the light of day with that low, sour pit in my stomach that grows each time I fall short of who i am. Who I know I could be.
My greatest fear is that pit will grow, fester, livid and acidic, consuming me from the inside out, like a worm boring through a rotten apple.
I write all of this, dear reader, because you have given me something I have never found in myself.
You made me feel excited, curious, embarrassed, nervous; emotions I used to think were negative, but now, I see differently. They’re not the weeds that tether me to the dirt, but the ivy that strangles my old, pre-conceived notions.
To not take my ideas seriously would be a disrespect to the time you have given me, the time you could be reading someone elses work, or even, perhaps, creating work of your own. I imagine that I’m standing at the edge of a very long cliff, with a peak that sticks out in a jagged way, looming above the ground. I stand with my feet webbed with rocks and earthen rind, and down below, you are there. You stand in pools of moss, eyes upward with benevolence, waiting. And when I look at you, I realize I have no fear of heights.
I will jump not when I’m ready, but when I don’t think about it at all.
I don’t think it will feel like a leap; I think it will feel like flying.
With great personal aesthetic,
Alexandra Diana
