I sometimes visit about the loneliest place I know.
I go alone.
It’s dark. A dark no light can pierce.
An impenetrable cold.
I go when I’m lost. Not a little lost but I really haven’t got a fucking clue where I am lost.
It’s a good place to hide. To be ashamed. To be small.
I go there because I know this place so well.
Feeling no one could possibly love me.
I was born here you see.
Oh there was a mum and a dad but they just didn’t know how to love me. Not really.
You know the special love
when you know you’re welcome and wanted? I don’t.
Sometimes mum gave me that. So rarely I can’t really remember. But I do. Inside.
Inside I look and see her love as if inside a broken picture frame. Oh I could piece it back together but to see what was so fleeting would be simply too much to bare. All the broken promises. Too much. Much too much.
So I go to the familiar.
The place of the unloved,the unwelcome. The ghosts.
Nothing feels good,smells good,tastes good. Nothing. No feeling. Nothing.
Maybe you go here too? Maybe.
But when you do you’re alone. No matter how many of us are visiting there we’re alone.
Until we cry out in our despair.
And cry out we must,
Because then,and only then,will we be heard.
Then,and only then,when the cry is heard
will the warmth of belonging arrive.
Because as I know so well – and maybe you – hoping to be found in the grey never works. Never.
The whole point of the grey place is to die,alone,afraid,in shame and never be noticed.
So no one sees me,sees you.
So cry out if you want to feel welcome
CRY OUT from the depths of your being,in truth,if you want what’s truly yours.
Cry out in love of yourself and you will surface from the depths
will be home,
will be warm.
Loved and welcome.