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The Fuel

And I don't stop...

If I stop and think, I'd feel prickles inside my gut and they travel up to my esophagus, all the way to my brain and it stops my receptors. I stare at space and nothing will move inside my body, as my tongue freezes and I will mute for as long as I keep thinking of yesterday. The triggers come in so many forms, without warning and often because I yearn so much. For love, for babies, for cuddles with a handsome bear or being in a home full of children of my own. Often, I feel shame for it, because I should contain my emotions and swear it to secrecy to avoid vulnerability to the outside world. 


If I stop and think about what happen with him and feel sad about it, the prickles excites sad memories that somehow my Dad can feel miles away and his eyes moistens as he tells me, "I'm still here, honey. And I love you." I wonder about me as a daughter and as a woman, if I make my parents proud and my siblings happy. Some days, I cry, and cry, and cry, because I feel I could do better. The prickles comes down to my stomach again, and my gut tells me, "you have a long way to go. Just keep going, keep working, keep hoping, and keep praying." That's all I can do, as I take it as it comes.


If I stop and rest for too long, my body slumps and the bones in my flesh gravitates to my couch and down goes my energy. It creates a habit that is so difficult to break because it creates a thick wall that stops my running from starting. If I let it be, this lazy bones becomes fragile and old, aging and brittle as my hair greys and silvers, and my face is of a bride with white hair. I become a nightmare and even during Christmas, my spirit will not be in joy.


If I keep going, with a bit of a rest, but keeping at it, not letting go, striving for it and knocking at God's door. I enter a realm where those prickles becomes energy and it spreads throughout my body, emerging out of my skin with tiny needles flying out, breaking away stale air. If I don't stop to think so much, I focus on my now and live my present for each moment at a time. I will walk my pace and I don't anticipate the future as I try to work my best. The triggers will always be there and the prickles comes up to haunt me sometimes as I keep moving with a gait on a mission. I stop caring about what Satan says about me and the thoughts of what might be. I will not stop to think, only to rest of a moment, even with a tired body.


Giving it my all, one day a time. Just write.

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