There’s a weird feeling here. It’s a haunted place. I’m going to live with the fear of these ghosts, because I knew them. It’s always death under the blankets with me. I feel soft to myself and probably nobody else. But I’m here, all alone. Still alive and feeling something rise so deep from below, I want to get away. Get hurt by you.
But nothing compares to the sounds in the hallway. And yes, I’m afraid to not be the prettiest anymore. I’m afraid to be on my own with nothing. Others depend on me and I can barely depend on myself. So I came back, after India, after Guatemala, after killing the only ones who were waiting for me to come home. I came back, to America. To the past, all alone. I have nothing and that’s just the truth, the way it is. And I know everyone thinks younger is better. And I know I’m not particularly anyone’s first choice. My self esteem and self worth were wounded before Bhagavan Das but especially during those twelve years. The things people have done to me I can’t talk about. I have made it this far. It would be a lie to say I am comfortable in my own skin, especially now. I am simply waiting for the ice to melt, I must have left her, this fragment of me, back here…waiting for the wound to be opened again. More pain, more hurt, more loss. There is nobody when the door opens. There are old smells that remind me, shadows I imagine of little hungry dogs crossing the room. His eyes rocking across from me as I watch him spin a prayer wheel worrying how to take away the suffering of his old age. And I know it’s not just this experience, but my experiencing of this experience. Being old, being a faded image, being weak enough to hide behind a man so long banging cymbals, holding him up. Becoming the ground for others…and now, here I am twelve years later in an empty room filled with leftovers and forgotten dog toys. The aftermath. This dissolution came out of nowhere, this possession, him changing. The ruthless, lightening like slaughter. I am extremely unsafe right now, metaphorically and emotionally speaking. Yes, even in God’s perfect hands. It’s like having your eyes open in a dream. You know those dreams that hurt so deeply you wake up with tears in your eyes and worlds overlapping. Nothing will ever be the same. I will only grow older and more afraid of my uselessness. I sit for hours and hours, all night long trying to make sense of what happened, but I can’t. Make sense of these ancient corkscrew demons. They fill the room twisting with faces I know, like mosquitoes. They’re unseeable by the human eye. But I see them, I hear them…buzzing in the darkness, I always did. They want my blood, all of it. Shapeshifters have taken us all. What can I do, nothing but wait to see what’s left for me to survive on, like a carcass or a prayer. The only thing to do is give up, the struggle is useless. The devastation too complete. My reality too death defying. And yet there is hope because I have seen myself in these ashes I write from. A beam of light in his eyes, silver bells that only I can hear. And so don’t feel I have lost you or left you because I’ve blown up the world, struck down the lackluster person you knew. It’s a new more solid shell, new more dangerous wings. I am looking into space as I feel space. I sacrifice memory upon memory to the open blade of the moment. This is my spiritual knowing. These fears are my guru taking me in. “Look, see these walls that surround you. Feel this hurt from before. Bleed what you haven’t bled…be pale in the moonlight.” I tell you because I love you and I can trust you and I think you can handle it. I don’t know where to go or what to do but be here in the temporary holding cell. The bardo of before. But I will know because I am moving in the red flow of my rogue heart. This gypsy covered in flowers that nobody sees but the flowers themselves is the one who is real. This person I care for as myself. I said it because it’s true. “Let it be, let it go, love conquers all.” Give up the rest and let the true love for yourself move her forward. There is the cemetery I have created by destroying. There are the ghosts that decorate me by concealing me. There is an invisible moving force even greater than the urge to die, it is love. Your love that reveals me. Even here…even death, my now. Sharada Devi