I remember taking refuge in the sensation of pain. It was overwhelming and I consciously let it overwhelm me. From the outside there was a cooling breeze, coming from the shore. Soothing sounds of waves somewhere in the dusk that encapsulated the beech now. The pain originated in my shoulder but as I let it, it would stream hot into my back and neck and from there would fill my guts and thighs. I was comfortable with it because it was so familiar and so close to me. How can pain ever be anything but very close to me?
Category Archives: series 2
I remember taking refuge in my naive romantic dreams coming from my childlike poetic heart. This is how life should be. Living from what nature gives me. Seeing the sun set, while listening to songs telling my own story, singing along.
I remember taking refuge in the music in my ears. Music! A voice directed at me. It had been days since I heard a voice directed at me. Longer even since I spoke myself. An now this. Carefully I hummed along with the song that I knew vaguely.
My fingers ran gently along the polished wood of the table as I took refuge in the wellness of my being. I carefully picket up the small knife and admired the craftsmanship with which it was made. It was old silverware. The china on the table was beautiful too. Not too ostentatious, delicate non the less. And expensive. I could see that. I put down the knife again and put my hands in my lap. I retreated to my being and found refuge in how well it was. Complete, whole, resting in itself. Within breath.
I could not find any refuge. There was no refuge. Finding refuge is an illusion. Don’t fuck with me. Don’t fuck with my mind. I am no fool. There was no refuge to be found anywhere. Neither in my senses, nor in my thoughts. Definitely not in anything of the world either. I felt chased like shot game. Hunt down like a fox that got separated from its burrow by a pack of hounds. My breathing always superficial and high up in my chest. All of my tired muscles tense and ready to jump and run. My hands clutched ready to use the fists in my pockets to my defence. My eyes open even when I fell asleep. Sleep so I would not die, but never relax.
I remember taking refuge in the sharp, distinct and sparkling glow on the edge of the knife. The sun reflecting. It was bright and white and it moved back and forth along the curve of the knife as the knife moved up and down a bit in the hand of Rem. It was hypnotising and I noticed my breathing connected with the movement of that glow, up and down, back and forth, in and out. Very superficially, but still breathing. In… and out again…
I remember taking refuge in the specific pressure and friction happening to my left heel. A blister was growing, all swollen, pale, the size of a quarter already, last time I checked. A thick skin covering it. The sensation of the shoe, the friction tearing and tucking at it with every step. O, please, I hoped it would not snap. I had to walk some more miles still.