Heavy

I was a heavy heart to carry, my beloved was weighed down

                                                                             -Florence + The Machine

I wish you’d met me when I was heavy too.

Selfish? Mabye.

I wish I’d met you when you weren’t; when you did not have this weight.

Had you met me: We would both have had weight we were dragging. I like to think that we would have drawn each other out of the darkness, helped let go of the weight, piece by piece, till we found ourselves weightless, standing naked in front of each other, with only one place to go; up and out, into the light. Or maybe we would have killed each other; each one dragging the other down with their heavy, into the whirling vortex of darkness, until we were both totally and utterly consumed- destroyed.

Had I met you: Light. Light and freedom and syrup. Unburdened by situations and complications and inabilities. Free to say and feel and express. Free. Light and full of light.

Here that we have met: You’re healing. Mending. Dealing. I’m healed and mended, having fully dealt. Understand, I say this with no sense of regret/condescension/superiority. I do not begrudge you your time or your right to mend, I do not. It is yours, as much as the air you breathe is yours not before you take it in, in that one cannot point to it and say “Look, this breath right here, this one, is yours”, but once you take it in, it becomes yours, because you have taken it. The time you take is not yours before you take it- I cannot say, “Take, here are these six months for you to mend”- but if you take one year to mend, then that year becomes your time.

You are heavy, and I’m unencumbered. This, by itself, is not the worst thing on earth. I’m not afraid of my light, or your darkness. But what if? What if my light helps you a little? Helps you rise out of the darkness? Does this come at a cost, I wonder? Do I trade in my light for your darkness, piece by piece? Does this become an exchange? An exchange that ends up with you, sitting up above and free, while I’m writhing in pain, below, a stool for your feet? Is that what becomes of this?

That I am in a free space opens me up to giving freely, easily. Giving is falling. What I am saying is that, I will fall, am falling, easily. Will I find you on the floor with me? Or will you have risen by the time I hit the ground? Will you not then meet someone who’s up and above with you at that time, so that you can jointly fall? Is that not how this works?

Nna’m, what I am fearing is that when you are able to give everything freely, it will not be to me.