When I was a little kid, I was forced to learn how to shut it all off. How to bury my feelings under a pile of ash that was created by burning my dreams. Then to lie there as the snow and ice fell atop of me. Waiting as it numbed everything. Buried.
I learned that feeling nothing is the safest way to live. That remaining unattached, and distant becomes a safe space where my soul can survive.
I learned that God cares less than people and that people just don’t give a fuck at all more than small passing platitudes. And sometimes, most times, not more than they think you can or should do for them.
I’ve been alive for almost 56 years and it’s numbingly comfortable to know that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
My safe place, like a switch that I can flick, and find my soul there. Resting easy and wrapped up protectedly within my anger.
