Stump

A stump. A dead end. Cutting off the blood supply. Man, I wish I could just do that to the problem. Cut off the blood supply to the problem. The problem. The problem is too intense. The problem is suffocating me. Choking my airways. I’m done. I’m tired, and I’m done. I have no energy left, nothing actually. What do I have left? I have a stump. A wound that’s open, left for bittersweet memories to glide in and leave some salt there to sting my soul. That’s what I have left. I don’t know where I’m headed but I couldn’t care less. Because I’m not bothered about tomorrow. But I am bothered about how I will feel tomorrow. Will I feel the same? Will I still be a stump? Or will this broken seed within me give way to a new baby shoot? Ready to spring out and face the world so brave. Isn’t that what we do every day, though? We grow a new shoot from the same bruised stump; ready to go out and jump all obstacles and resist all wind that may come and blow it down. Only to have it die because a shoot needs nourishment, and where will that nourishment come from? It dies. And you cry. Sad and alone, that the babe you nourished all day has fell. By the time you rest your head on your pillow at night, your stump is fresh. And raw. And blistered from the daily attempted regrowth. You nurture it. You say to it, softly: “It’s going to be okay, let’s try again tomorrow”. But you know, deep in your soul, that you don’t have the strength for that. You search deep in the caverns of your sunken heart, for some faith. For something to use for tomorrow. You have to keep whatever remnants you have left and start again tomorrow. You have to.

Peace and love, for those that need it. x

This is a reply to Stump.

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