Love sick. Or any sickness like strep. The body learns to heal. But Eventually the dust settles and and you get glimpses of clarity amongst feeling weak and broken. Rock bottom. Barely breathing.
The glimpses. Those are the moments we all or maybe just I pray for. it's a song, a smell, a visual item that reminds you of a moment of a time you wish could last forever. And in that moment you feel the love and the power and the strength to keep believing, you can almost run on top of trains like super man.
But it's those moments that make or break us. No matter how deep our wounds become or are, we can't help but pick at them. It's like when u ride a bike and scrape your leg, your cut itches as it heals but you have to leave it alone in order for it to heal. But the thought to itch it. Is always there. And when it gets itchy is when it's beginning to heal. Keyword always. Keyword wounds. But eventually time heals all wounds emotionally and physically. The more we pick at our wounds the longer they stay as wounds. Or we can pick and pick until the dead skin sheds the wound raw. Physically and emotionally. Cause that's an option too. And those scars run deep. The deeper the scar the more it takes to heal. the longer the recovery.
But it's glimpses. Of a life or a possibility or a ray of light in the darkness that convinces us as humans that what were doing is right. But like shooting stars the glimpses are gone. And all you have is darkness.
Like being in. A tomb. A 6 x 6 wooden tomb with nothing but your soulless body 6 ft. Under ground. In that tomb nothing will matter but those glimpses of faith or possibility to guide you to your destiny of a fulfilling life.
It's glimpses that would make you compelled to run one way or another but like shooting stars it fades.
We must know what feeds our energy through glimpses of clarity and thank our lucky stars for protecting us from picking at our wounds and allowing them to heal and not act on them.
A song. An item. A place. A memory. It's a glimpse of a life that never happened and is just a memory. It's a glimpse of hope that love can happen and when the candle blows out night after night and darkness falls, those glimpses turn to bullets. Bullets dodged in darkness.
Love sick. Like any sickness. It takes medicine and the sickness will go away. The question was the glimpses. Were they medicine or bullets. Was I picking a scar or knowing it was healing through the itch.