Safe house


May Cho of The Mayden writes about the fragility of life
Brunei-based writer May Cho of The Mayden writes about the fragility of life
Life's been a bit too good and I am afraid.

This state of normalcy I find myself within, absent of peril, of turbulent storms, troubles me. I do not feel right feeling this sane. There looms no danger in the air, no great, devastating stench harbinger of internal disaster. It is odd, almost disturbing. It feels like a taunt, like I am in a safe house that caters to my every need, my every desire. It keeps me safe and sane, dispelling my mind into all of its warmth and fullness and sending my body into a light, glowy buzz. All this while the outside world breaks beneath chaos.

And then, I think: I belong in the chaos.

Brunei-based writer May Cho of The Mayden writes about the fragility of life
Where skies whip clouds into corrupt reveries and pools into roaring tides, there I should be. My limbs should not be stagnant and pampered by the aid this safe house offers. When my fingers slide over a kitchen knife underneath the breakfast nook, it should not be to slice bread into perfect, pieces of toast. The skin on my arms should not be smooth, sutured into stability. There exists no such thing as peace and calm and quiet because I belong in the chaos. To be without the turmoil that creeps inside every vein, slithering through vessels and streams making everything sick and shriveled from the inside out, is to be bare, vacant. So used I have been to decay --

-- but so delectable it has been to be without it. I think more than anything, I am afraid of going back, of descending and falling down the cracked steps of darkness again because right here, right now, I am still.  I am light. I am above -- in air -- within air. I can breathe deeply, inhale, feel my lungs expand with the air of the universe and all of its goodness and all of its life.

I do not want to leave.

I do not want to leave this constant, this calm, this intoxicating freedom to breathe without pain -- but I fear the day my clean, open veins yearn for the weight of something -- of sadness, of chaos, of whirling, turbulent storms -- and I open the door to let it all in.

Still the world  rages outside the door.

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MAY X.
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