The battle of unlearning.

I have been entered into a season of unlearning. Whether by choice or not, it is where I have found myself in these past few weeks. Trying out new thoughts, leaving the old ways by the side of the road. Advancing onwards to the new views in the distance.

I sat at home, chained to my desk by this need to write while waiting for the words to come forth but they would not. So I whiled my day away scrolling endlessly, looking for permission. For validation. For imagination. I thought I would find it at the hands of fellow writers, whose words would give my words the legs it needed to spring forth onto the page. But all it did was make them retreat further into its cave. afraid of the sunlight. Wary of its own reflection. Off I went. typing in fits and starts hoping that an idea would catch. That some spark would light the bonfire necessary to call the words forward to dance. But nothing worked and so I retreated. I threw my hands up. declared to myself that I was no writer. I had no breath.

I do not write about love or joy. I have no sweetness to deliver like others. All my words so far have felt jagged and sharp. Visceral in its deliverance of healing. Full of metaphors and descriptions. Costly. at least to me. I have no more words for long essays, or personal insights. I have no wisdom to give. No sunshine to imbue. I only have me and the road I am walking on. The one that has forced me in front of the mirror to learn more about myself. To learn to walk at a pace that is not mine. To deal with things I thought I dealt with. To surface old wounds, air them out, clean out the debris and let it heal. That is all I have. for now. I only have the moments that I live in. Which I am realising carry their own weight in beauty.

Maybe one day I will have enough sunshine and starlight in my veins that everything I write will spill out like spring. In flowers and warm golden sunshine. cause laughter. but for now, all I have is this becoming. This unearthing and the language of unlearning. I have realised that the life that happens at the dinner table is a life that is messy, unfinished. dirty, covered in earth and expensive.

It is not just beautiful dinners with delicate china and matching linens. but sometimes it is endless wine and tears in the night. It is forcing down the old you so the new one can take its place. It is learning that the old ways will serve you no longer. so we must adapt. it is about going around and around in circles until you reach daylight. Until the sky breaks and you finally understand. it is about cleaving to something. forcing poison from the wounds. letting rain be holy and letting it wash you clean. it is endless. the learning, the unlearning. the becoming and the undoing. It is serious and delicate and it is wholly mine.

Maybe one day the thorn of comparison would leave my side. Surrender its place in my flesh and leave me without the need to watch others with calculating eyes. But for now, in this moment, I have learnt to ignore it. Learnt that it is powerless and painless as long as I do not give it attention. It may be there forever, but I am learning that it can only hurt me to the extent at which I let it. I am sure it is not a thorn I carry on my own. I know others bear the same burden. and that knowledge gives me a peace in knowing I do not bear this pain in solitude. Maybe one day the words will come with ease. Sauntering into the light. but for now, we attend to the wounds and words that come with living a little bit in the dark. I have always found that I learn more in the dark anyway.