Some days, I walk out the front door and a tsunami of emotion splashes onto me.
It breaks the thin barrier of my skin and seeps wildly, fiercely within. It courses, a thousand miles an hour, a thousand goldfish in the form of tears, into every muscle and vein and tendon.
My clothes are soaked. I’m covered in saltwater, emotional ocean waves, and tears.
Some days, I walk out the door and I'm splattered with neon paint of emotion that doesn't belong to him.
Some days, feeling this much seems far too brutal and I want to turn back and return to the sweet safety of my blankets.
Some days, I walk into town, my feet take me swiftly across the metal bridge that overlooks the highway and as the city blocks come into view, and I feel.
I feel so much.
I feel “too much.”
The air is thick with the electricity thousand emotions. Buzzing and pulsing, like hyped-up lightning bugs.
I hear them. I smell them. I taste them.
It hurts. It's sad. It's beautiful.
There is somehow a sublime rapture, a sacred cracking in allowing myself to feel this much.
I walk past the expensive botiques and neatly laid out city blocks and nicely decorated apartments. I walk where the business men rush by in a blurry haze with black leather briefcases that all look the same.
And I feel.
I feel so much.
I feel “too much.”
But really, there is absolutely no such thing as feeling too much. There is just feeling. And feeling is power. It is, in fact, my superpower.
In the thick storm clouds of viscous emotion, I find myself again.
I feel. I feel so much that it rips me apart, and there, in that shredded, bloody depths of transformation—I find myself again.
Today, I cannot close my heart. It’s an impossibility.
I smile at this, today.
Because this is home to me.
I dance in the thunder crackles of this wild intensity.
I scream as I drive too fast in my car and sing at the absolute top of my lungs.
I throw words on the page, like splattered neon paint. I make a mess. Not even knowing where sentences or apostrophes end up.
I delight in feeling. It’s not bad, shameful, or wrong. It’s not sinful.
Because feeling is my destiny. It is my path. It is the only way my heart and soul know.
So right now, today, I accept it.
It is my path to crack open, ooze out into the mountainscapes and city sidewalks, to breakdown, breakthrough, recycle my broken bits, find my wings and fly like a falcon through the wildest currents of cool mountain winds.
It is my path to do this every damn day.
And I used to hate days like this—days that now color the whole of my life. I used to loathe them. I used to numb myself into a bitter sense of complacency so I wouldn’t feel them.
I used to hate these days.
Because some days, I walk out my door and I feel the gritty, undulating groans of hearts all over the world, breaking.
I feel the pitter pattering sweat-like beads of hopelessness.
I feel the pain that we stagnate in, and arrogantly deem it a life.
I feel the tiniest, most beautiful thorns of truth behind the shiny magazine fold stacks of lies.
I feel the utter agony of being so distracted with shit that doesn’t matter and utterly separated from our souls.
I feel, I feel, I feel—
I f*cking feel.
I lay split-open, swimming in an undulating sea of choppy emotion.
I feel so much that the world would call me insane.
But feeling so much, is the most sane thing in the world.
I can no longer deny this part of me that is born to feel.
I can no longer hate or reject myself for feeling deeply, passionately, explosively.
I can no longer numb myself to the entirety of emotion that blossoms around me, daily, in the swirling sea of society.
The world hurts. It moans and aches. I hurt, too.
Why should I turn my head blindly and pop a couple of Prozac and go on, talking about bullsh*t and emptiness?
Why should I numb myself?
Why should I close my heart?
Why the f*ck would that be the right thing to do?
I meant to feel, born to feel—
I cannot deny it anymore.
Oh, I feel.
It is no longer grounds to hate or reject myself.
I value my heart—my wild heart that is strong enough to feel it all.
I will turn my back on her no more.
This is my battle cry. This is my empathic battle cry.
For I know so many hearts sing and dance along to this same wild, juicy, feeling beat.
Let us hide no more. Let us suffocate ourselves no more.
Let us feel.
Let us hinge open our hearts---even to things that aren’t pretty.
Even to the things that don’t feel good.
Let us open our hearts not slightly, not quietly, not politely—
Let us open our hearts wildly.
Let us make art of what hurts.
Let us splatter truth into the shiny, bullsh*t crevices of society.
The world needs more heart.
The world needs your heart. So badly.
Taste the sunset in your bones.
Feel complete and utter agony.
Feel the icy doldrums of loneliness.
Feeling is freedom.
You are not a robot.
You are a goddamn human being with a dripping heart and you are meant to feel.
There is nothing wrong with tears begging to spill out of your eyes like a fierce rain.
There is noting wrong with anger welling up inside you and what seems like a never-ending litany of pain.
Do not turn your back on your innermost nature.
This is my battle cry. This is our battle cry.
Let us, together, from afar—
Cry. Laugh. Honor our sharpest shards of heartbreak. Honor our traumas. Pry off the plastic smiles we used to wear.
Let us, together, from afar----
Because this, this---this is where the healing occurs.
Photo: Flickr/ martinak