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It almost chokes me to really contemplate today.

Just... Number.....


Sanctuary For All But Self

You can have inner beauty and soul. You can have a heart that will bleed itself dry to give to others out of your nothingness.

You can reach into someone's darkness with a lantern to bring them back to the light. You can share space, and touch souls, and you can feel the wounded drawing from your strength. You can offer yourself as a friend, a counselor; the one person that will be in someone's corner no matter if the world is devouring them. You let the world devour you instead.

Then, comes time for rejuvenation. All those seeds you planted. All those shattered, wounded souls you gave water to as they lay thirsty. All those nights and days where you went with less so someone could have more. All those agonizing seconds you just sat wondering once everyone was full, if they truly felt how your soul screamed into a chasm of emptiness.

All those moments where you sit, and watch, even in your own family, companionship, and wonder what it feels like to be solely excepted by another human, yes another broken mortal; fully. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, and unconditionally.

Trust me, all those people that say they wish and crave total aloneness.

If they espouse such rhetoric; it is truth that they are telling themselves inwardly...

One... more... day...

Just one more day, you can do it number two.

Truly that is really how all of us number twos, because I know I am not alone, do this day in and day out.

All of us called strong. All of us called amazing. All of us there for everyone when they need us.

All of us who have to be there for ourselves when we really need it. All of us who know what it is like to reach out of thirst at the bottom of your well to a humanity you loved selflessly, and in total soul-crushing realization, are cursed for running out of your thirst-quenching water.

You stop chopping life into seasons and plans and years.

You literally look at one day and rise and work and do your to do list and try not to go to bed with the what ifs of life weighing on your mind.

And this becomes routine. This becomes life.

This becomes the day in and day out.

This becomes who you are until you realize just how cold internally to yourself you have become.

You are that beautiful, hidden, tranquil spot where people come to cleanse themselves. They come and they drink and they take. They take and they leave whole because they took something they never intended to return.

Living, pure water can only stay that way so long. It becomes contaminated and becomes stagnant.

People quit coming because it no longer gives...for now.

One does what one must to heal self.

The water will become beautiful in time again, of that I am certain.

But, people will still bring their filth and hurt and refuse and that I am more certain of than rejuvenation.

I just hate that even with all the giving I am still...just...number...two.

And I don't want pity. And I don't want a knee jerk. And I don't want you reaching out of guilt.

If you didn't notice all this before, our souls were never in tuned. Your soul was not made and refined by the same fire as mine. Your stones are, but brick and not gems.

I don't want your thatch. I want your gold. And if you didn't see the same storm within yourself when you approach the shores of mine; you have no idea what I need, let alone want from my immortality and the depths of yours.

Rather you needed a soul, and more specifically, that which is in me you craved. You wanted what you saw inside; not to know the broken shell that contained it. You wanted to be the same, but it will die the further you get from the source that I promise you. You have no understanding of depth.

I want deep. I crave deep. I would rather drowned in the depths of my soul's unanswered, immortal questions, than be scorched by the unmerciful heat of the hellacious sun.

I would rather face life alone holding my own sword, then cowering behind someone else's shield begging for their mercy.

I would rather stand alone than be a poor, helpless soul unable to stand.

I would rather be this shattered, tattered, shell of a person that still gives out of my nothingness because only then do I truly understand somethingness.

But... I will scream this from the depths of the darkest corners of my soul... With all of my morality and immortality raging against each other...

No matter the rejuvenation, this side of my mortality I will NEVER be able to rationalize or except why I am still only, humanly, only number...two....

That is where the chill begins to burn. Where fire meets ice.

Where ice meets the true corners of my soul. Where the chill sets in until there is no feeling, no recognition of warmth.

How can it be that not one, single, solitary, soul of likeness (that is the key) on this planet see this soul of likeness as more than just a backup plan. Backup plans don't listen until the midnight oil burns dry! Backup plans don't reach into their pennies and produce dollars! Backup plans don't shelter secrets to in the end become a secret!

Backup plans don't lay it all bare and allow His Majesty to multiply to be cut short! Backup plans don't look at your scars and see a mosaic to be called monster in turn! Backup plans don't feed the hungry to starve at their own table! Backup plans don't pour water into your scorched soul to in turn be lit on fire! Backup plans don't give of themselves openly cutting and bleeding love to be told, ya you are....

Just... Number..... Two.................

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