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easkyrah · 7 years

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The Strength of the Fire

In definition, my name means the Beloved, Brilliant Warrior.

I struggled with that for the longest of times. How can you believe such authoritative adjectives and a noble noun when your heart’s sunken for the severed soul, eyes drooped with wishes to see no more, mind spinning a melancholy mess, and body scratched with the manifestation of suicidal tendencies?

Vituperation bred vices. And it would not stop there. The imagination would carry the listless loathing lining my limbs to envision welded welts and scarred skin. The sleepless, cold nights in the garage and on the porch and parks would spiral into a pale figure with cracked lips and splintered fingers. The rumble of my stomach and cuts on my palms would appear when I closed my eyes—and when I opened them, fear thundered in my mind, echoing in my heart.

Hands no longer held the hope to hold happiness. The smile lied and eyes blinked blear brokenness. The tongue no longer spoke from the heart. Because when you need words the most, they fail you at the least. Words storm the mind and impedes the passion from being reached, the writing to stop and imagination to halt. The breathing of each bated syllable becomes ragged, unfulfilling, no longer appreciated. It is words that drag the knife across the flesh.

I believed that devolution existed—when words deteriorated the mind, which strived to simply exist, the monster would rampant. I believed that the loss in humanity wasn’t pessimistic—but a mere, stale statement of spiteful simplicity. I believe that the world conjured pathetic excuses to make a girl lock herself in a room and doubt her self-worth in the first place—creating a long road from self-love.

I learned that life’s a rigged game, and if you play your cards right, you’ll fill your pockets. But holding up cards means casting a curtain over your character—holding a poker face, . I play along in this game of perfection and obedience, swimming in swallowing silence. He deals out the cards and I cannot cheat. Because there are no shortcuts. Only the duration of the drilled defeat in the dark lingers.

Negativity napped in my niche. But sometimes even words twisted that meaning. Because if negativity means angst, the tragic, the broken, the embittered, the melancholy, then I will forever be negative. Because there’s a beauty in the darkness and calmness in the eye of the storm, a simple sanctuary of understanding and palpable camaraderie of misunderstood truths. Because society dilutes love, and love bleeds, concentrated on the lost.

In the sun, the recollection of summer memories, of what should have been forever savored, slips from my grasp. I drown in the rain, washing myself with the miscounted times of misery. The rain pelts away in this body that does not want to carry me, and me carry this body. The sun burns brightly, but it cannot melt away the foul, nor stop the shadow in following. And the world needs both the sun and the rain, because a life with only the sun will become the desert, and a life with only the rain will become the seas.

This is not a story about learning to walk in the supposed light, filled with radiant, shining vibes and transforming the mindset into a joyous reflection of all exuberance. This is a story of learning to endure enmity, and engage in a little euphoria. And there is a story behind every scene, an impetus and building block that creates the first spark to light up the dark.

Barren perspectives and lack of connection makes the sight of the body and mind being stripped naked and held accountable for the vices in another’s turmoiled mind unimaginable. But I imagine it every day. Coping with the inner demons and outer ghosts and learning how to swallow the acerbic taste wallowing in the mouth are by no means an easy task.

But the first step is to offer yourself a piece you can afford to give, which cannot be snatched from you nor demanded of your will. You can offer your forgiveness, which is the only facet I can allow anyone to hold over me. That was my first step towards inner peace, because for so long had I easily blamed my external surroundings for my unhappiness. Without a doubt did my environment and its culture shape me, but just in adapting a writing style, you pick and choose what you want to absorb, and let the rest blow away.

But sometimes you cannot forgive, or perhaps that’s because you cannot forget. But how can you fix something that does not want to be mended? How to you furnish together broken glass? Why would you remain in blissful beauty when you have drowned in the curdling consumer? Do you simply apologize for it all, or for who you are?

For being broken? How do you define that? B-r-o-k-e-n. Two syllables does not fully enclose the tiny cries of pain, the horrid shrieks of agony, and the strangled coughs of loss. The ears hear the cacophony, the shattered sounds, strung together, a failed mend.

All the levels of pain according to circumstance shred against one another in uneven scales. A drill worms into my skin, a hammer pounding across my head. There is no escape except for turning into myself, a vast, stark land of save for emotion’s turmoil.

It roars within me, also frustrated. A sense of pathetic desperation, a feeling I sink in all too well, needs to be heard. The demand to be felt wars another inner battle within the body, pores clogging from the bitterness. I have no control over this weakened body. Indeed, the constant inner struggle is what allows easy wickedness—no games, no looking back.

The scars have healed. My mind has not. I nod off in the darkness, eyes adjusting to the solemn silence, the beautiful beat in which only the absence of being alone elicits. Time waits for no man, but grants an infinity to the little, broken body.

The heart wrenches within. It flees with each touch of a caress, strokes meant to mold. The mind rejects the stroke, fear too ingrained, too ingrained within and wrapped around the sections of scarred skin— not outwardly exposure, but self-inflicted ones.

Our insides are as ugly as our true exteriors. We are invisible cannibals. We eat other’s emotions out. We devour their happiness and steal their laughter. We are creatures of one another. We wear the flesh of our surroundings and those we have conquered. We are starved creatures for other’s attentions, and will shred apart the skins of others in hopes of satiating our own souls.

A brand-new clang in my mind reverberates through my skull. It rings loudly, and even the pain cutting across my lip does not save the inner demons haunting, claws out. I’m not who I am or what I want anymore. I do not want this body, this mind, these words. I want more out of this body, this mind, and these words. I am tired and I sink further.

And the anchor only reels up with the forces of friends. My journey would not have been walked upon with my own feet without the helping hands of others. Genuine good, rare commodities in the world that sells and buys all, gathered me into gentle arms and walked with me, never quite fully understanding, and never quite fully letting me go.

Pain lives as my constant companion. Once more physical, now more psychological, pain printed the first page in my writing. Pain shadows me, depleting my own, and carves out the trailing shape to who it wants to be. I can see him wherever I walk, hear him through his mouth, and feel him with each step.

He is the physical figure of my fears fleshed together with the raw despairs of robbed dreams. He festers along my thoughts as a personal phantom, hooked around hope, bent on battering away bare benevolence. He makes me sick, and this is not the same as the iron deficiency, cold intolerance, hip flexor problems, plantar fasciitis, and physical injuries I have.

Conjured both by the weak mind and physical sport of cross country and track, running was once my life. It no longer is. But it is how I got here, and is part of my story. Running was a paved road his hands shoved me down, suffocating me through his desires and needs to be. Running was a sport I originally harbored no true tales of thankfulness for, berated and belittled and bullied. Running was where I tripped.

But running was within me: I fled from my feelings, dwelling in the depths of daydreaming. I fled from friends and family, the ones who cared truly—while he did not. I fled from my aspirations and passions, for these dreams did not belong in his. I sought closure within his words when he would never give an ounce of care of the harm or horrors hollowing within.

And when I did not listen to him, did he rage. Did the blows follow and my hopes leave. Did he roar that I was weak, that I was not worthy, that I was a disgrace. Did he see that his perfect vision rising to his distorted vision and his shape that he had so desperately tried to carve. Did the rampage trample all my desires in the deferred deliverance.

Did he ruin my views of the world: That the sounds of the surroundings saw them drenched in sorrows. That the dark side runs as the invisible hand belonging to the shadowed human cannibal, eating and eating and eating away at the marrow of our minds. That hearts heal in hell and do not walk out the same. That you cannot fully forgive. That you cannot fully forget. That the former reigns twisted in retrospect in itself, and that the latter plucks away perspectives.

I made running a road of my own. That the tedious tempo runs became the rock bottom intervals, the testing in standardization to stringency. That the long runs became the school years of desolation and dirtiness and my rocky relationships in ruinations. That the easy runs became the blissful, short, and free nights out in escape. That the start signaled by the shout of the gun was one chapter of my life and the finish was never the end, for one race was followed by the other.

Running, a chapter of my life, will never close. For the words of previous pages become ingrained in the future words, hinting or hiding, but forever lurking in the decisions. I will continue to run, pound away on the cement, road, grass, trails, and hills. And his shadow will forever run alongside me.

And he does not know of the maladaptive daydreamer, an unforeseen future forged as a coping mechanism, to tune out the terror tapping a tempting beat for the tyrant. That daydreaming becomes dangerous because the nightmares live in sight—in the mind. That the twitching face smooths over into a masked calm while the inside soars in turmoiled, tempest-tossed seas that drowns out the ebullience in everything.

Bleeding used to be the barrier between simply existing and living. Bleeding used to be part of my chapter, closed, over one and a half years clean. Bleeding used to be the boundary I had set for myself. Now that he red, little river serves as a raw memory to mock me, and of who I became as opposed to who I want to be.

If you gave me a razor, I would not turn it inwards in numbness. I would not turn it outward in fury. I would not sneak it into my pockets or hide it under my pillows. I would not stare at it anymore. I would not cradle it in comfort anymore. I would not hiss in pain anymore. It burns, that metal, in my mind. Instead, I let it cut me up in the mind from each memory.

And I drop it. I reach for the hands who also are hurting, hollowed, and hating. And I grip those hands tightly so that I do not do what I want myself to be anymore, and clench them tighter so that those bodies do not turn for the tainted tales.

And when I release the hands, I reach for it. I pick up the pen and pad. And Ea Skyrah was born. I am not water, calm and quiet, currents that run along the Earth, sturdy and solid. I am not the free flowing, willowy and wild wind. I am not the mist, clouded and lost, lurking in tacit transience. I am not the grains of sand in clumps that needs the form, the shapeless, senseless serenity. I am a cacophony that catches to the cold’s flame, chilled to the cerebrum. I am the one that stands up after each blow, an ember in enmity. I am the one snuffed out and dried in the dark. I am the fire that flickers and fights.

I am Ea. And while my body is not immortal, words certainly are. Words are a part of my story, and yours. Words are eternal and everlasting. Words are the Skyrah. Experiencing embitterment, Ea Skyrah wrote and writes, scrawling on paper, crumpling the pieces, madly typing away. I am Ea Skyrah, and so can you—or maybe you’re already one—for all the unwritten chapters spoken in the dark, never heard in the light:

For the fire that flames within us—lest the age of the youth flicker out—and the era of the conformity that washes over us, clothing us as machines, branding us to time itself. For the ebullience that shines within our eyes before the dray and drab seeps in. For the dreams that remain unanswered but visually graspable through the haunted imagination—and shattered through cold reality.

For the immoral legacy of the words that scrawl on the papyrus, etching a sense of eternal measure compared to the dust of us that returns to the soil. For the pen that rises mightier than the sword—the syllables that influences the righteous knight into an ugly battle of hardened steel and crimson liquid. For the words that knows no boundaries and limits, the human imagination encircling the far-reaching abilities.

Without writing, the body sunders to the thoughts. And my thoughts are full of malice and hate, a consuming sensation. And the dreaming dares to darken the soul. But you do not belong to the dark. The dark does not own your blood. It does not cater to your happiness or heartache. Your sins and sorrows sew in your own story. Your virtues and values seek only your own validation. You belong.

When we breathe and live in a flame of words reeking regret beyond retribution, dripping of pernicious poison, agony becomes fueled by the lashing fist. I paint mortality with limp limbs, broken bones, matted hair, wrinkled skin, not of the smooth sensations coated with curdled kindness, secured within the sick smile. Stale musk seeps through the air, tranquility oozing out the poors, wooden floors peeled away by the strips of barks systematically through chaotic order. Calmly haunted, quietly deserted and silently tormented, wisps of the will becomes soiled through the air.

The mortal mouths the mocked morals. Famine torments his stomach. Sores soap his body. Cavities fill his yellowed and browned teeth. Obscenities reach the tip of his tongue. The body becomes another’s bessel, as mine a sacrifice for his happiness, a tool for his actions and directions, a sundered soul for his delight.

I used to think that dreams were nothing but silly jokes, absurd and maddening, reflecting the condition of my care. The frown on my lips would reflect both his and my inner demons. In this I used to think it was better to allow the darkness, spoiled of years of unanswered dreams and hopes, to consume me whole. I owned my cowardice, wounds my only weapons.

But I had words. I had my own Ea Skyrah.

We are not dolls in society. We are not plastic. We are not our appearances. But they are key. And they often unlock the mind, not the hearts. And our bodies are broken, and that is tragically beautiful. Each of us are our own masterpieces, and to be smothered and splattered is an art on its own.

Society states that lying is a sin. All the seemingly mindless plastic dolls that do exist in this society thrive on the bland truths painted by the fads, speech in the palm and strides of all things he shadows. But time, ever eternal, shows that the any facet of Skyrah thrives on a different set of truths, the actual assessments that spin in the mind. To society, they are perceived as lies, and condemned.

But I cannot keep quiet anymore, and my brain deserves to be satiated, not prey for the invisible cannibals. And your voice deserves to be heard. For he can be feared, and cut off your tongue. He can scram lies down your ears and force you to eat it all. He can shower you in your ills and insecurity. He can pick away at your perfected picture.

But you have your words, sounds that cannot be cowed. Your words are your armor, not your clothes that can be cut and ripped away. Your words are your story that cannot be erased, for they cannot be erased as written ones. Your words are your weapons and woes.

But that is not the final chapter. Mortal may be the meat for the monster, but human is not just the weak will. The monsters live for the decaying decades, bidding in the wicked desire. The mortal lives in the luxury to breathe in changing choices, to make mirrored mistakes, and learn from these motions before we flip to the last page.

And when we learn from these things, we become wise, and when we don’t repeat these mistakes, no longer do we revere his lurking shadow or seek his acceptance. The monster has the rest of his life to perfect his mistakes, mulling and musing, while you and I can move forward and carve our own paths, head first. He has a long road ahead of him, and he cannot relax in that tie to all eternal evil.

For the masks we wear, where is the joy? Where do you allow yourself to let loose and realize that life continues even when you fall? Is human that concluding beauty, that in the end, we pass, cherished and envied, forgiven and fallen, respected and wiser than we first started? That we can release our last breaths knowing a ghost of genuine ghost haunts, or perhaps grabbed our hands? And that in our darkest hours, those who did see us make those mistakes, saw us?—and what’s better than shedding your skin so you are truly you with willing acceptance? Is it really weak, to be this mortal?

For the monster and he do not accept anyone, and we do not open our arms to him. And if he has you in a chokehold, remember that he is part of your shadow, a part of you even in the light. He follows you, but cannot truly touch you unless you let him. He will be your constant companion. But he cannot see your future. And while we move on, he cannot, eyes locked in enmity. He remains stagnant in his phase for the rest of your shifting time. He is sure of his purpose, but we are not, and we will search for more than he can. We are more than his figment of the future, and more than he can ever be.

You are fire, slowly lit to the match in the heat and rage. Your hands can slowly waver, and the fire will still be burning and eventually put out. But each stroke exists parallel to the passion, darkness, and mortality, full of spent and unspent life that came and will come.

For the healed scars on my skin means I may not be a warrior, but a survivor. That the brilliance does not have to be the light, but a dim flicker in the dark. That the brand of being beloved does not need to come from others, but from yourself. That you are your own flickering flame that will be put out and able to spark again. That you are eternal, and everlasting.

And I am Ea Skyrah, and she is a catharsis—the strength of the fire. And both our chapters are not over. That is Ea Skyrah.

#easkyrah #me #thank you for reading #personal #this was hard

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