Still

Here I am again. Frozen in a time that's both familiar and new. The merry go round has come around again and I am captured in another still moment of deja vu. Here I am again, all tears and defeat mixed with strength and upright spine.  Here I am. Again. Like the recreation of an old photograph, spanned through time. Another still. Another moment. Frozen.

It's different, but it's the same. I'm different, but I'm the same. The same little girl lost with messy hair and secrets. The same willful child who demands of others that the madness stop to no avail. The same little girl who feels both responsible and innocent.

Here I am again. Frozen in a still on this merry go round that seems to have no exit. But each turn has given me something more. A little more wisdom. A little more skill. A few more tools. A little more constructive damage and destructive strength. I'm dizzy and tired and this child's game stopped being fun a long time ago.

But it is all necessary. I have to believe that. Each turn has its purpose. Each time I'm thrown headfirst into the ground below, I recover a little slower yet a little bolder. Somehow, the broken parts heal more elastic each time. Somehow, it teaches me something useful to me or others. Somehow, it always changes me for the better. And somehow, I always end up back on the merry go round even when I know I shouldn't.

The pinball keeps pinging around. The merry go round keeps spinning. Here I am again. All rage and dejection and defeat and vigor. Here I am again taking taste tests of freedom, but not quite embracing it yet. Here I am again, knowing how the story ends, but surviving inside it first. The protagonist and antagonist both for and against myself. The other side of the climax, hurling toward the inevitable resolution.

Again and again and again and again and again. I want it to stop because it's making everyone sick. It won't. It doesn't. It never does. I get back on without knowing or wanting to. Again and again and again.
So here I am. Frozen. Dizzy. Unable to move. Catapulting toward the ground. Headfirst. Again.

Cleaning up the grafitti..

I can see him trying. I can see, in most moments, that he is making an effort to paint over all the old, ugly graffiti in our world with fresh, bright-colored paint. I can see that he is trying the best he can to keep the old words from bleeding through. I can see it. I'm watching. And I'm hesitantly, silently, cheering him on. He may not know it, but I am not a fairweather fan. I've been cheering him on even when he was having a losing season.

Sometimes he picks up the old spray paint can and starts to fall back into the familiar art of the graffiti. I speak up or walk away or just wait. And he picks up the paintbrush and goes back to work on the bright, new layer again. I can see it. I can feel it. I know it is happening. I cheer him on, in my way.

But I'm not ready to move back into his picture. I'm not washed of the graffiti. I can still feel it. Those words are still written on me.  And I know the spray paint can is still within his reach. It isn't empty. It isn't discarded. It is still there and I'm not ready. I have lost my impatience. I can wait.

But, while he is in his own battle against which art he decides will be his future, I have my own part of the wall. I am painting my own picture. With hues of beautiful orange and red sunsets, turquoise water and deep blue seas, green and yellow turtles, bold colored dresses that flow in the sea breeze, and the smiling faces of the people I meet. And I am peeking at his work and hoping again, that somehow our two works can come back together. I thought I had lost that hope, given up on the idea because the art of us had diverged too much. But I find myself hoping again that somehow the ugly graffiti wall that is still between us is swallowed up by the connection of our separate bright, beautiful, new experiences. 

And we can move back together. And our art can become a  collage again.

But I'm not ready yet.