Little Solider

What have I sacrificed, to put emotion into writing, meaning into form, my state into image and tangible moment? Would it have been better to leave well enough alone, or to have buried such outpourings in the folds of living, not to be seen? Most likely not, as the latter could be the end of me; pent up and wondering, brimming with passing feelings, unable to breathe or move for my constriction. So then, I face an almost interminable problem: that of being ashamed to be so needing in expression, while treading the tenuous balance between longing for acceptance of personal treasures and recognizing their seemingly insurmountable limitations.

Bravery, be with me; courage in a female heart, walking upright, clad in shining silver and paper white gauze. Humility, find safe refuge in my heart, for I am nothing without you, only a mass of unspeakable torments, fumbling without reason, hurting without growth, spending my talent as water spilled on concrete slabs.

Little solider, who ran away from the protection of her regiment, ill-equipped for the danger she encountered, her own cries of fear drowning out what helpful orders could have reached her. Now limps back to position, the armor provided her dinged and broken, blackened and missing the little touches of metallurgic beauty. It’ll be alright now, as you learn to relinquish the weapons you fashioned in frightened haste, learn to once again steer your horse into formation, straighten your back in assurance, and ride on in gallant company. Speak what words you discovered in stranger countries, and weave the ribbons of your experiencing into the cracks and fragments of your armor. Life will be painted in awkward colors, after all, until we learn, until we out grow our own ideas, and live simply. Leave fear in tattered phrases by the wayside, leave anger desperation and torment in muddied colors on a passing milestone. It was all meant for your development, it was yours; see yourself there finally, and move on.

Painting by myself