.Sometimes.

Sometimes I just have to pick at the scab and freshen the wound again and squeeze out the red.

I fear it not hurting anymore.

Becoming numb would be easier.

Putting on a bandaid, letting it heal, and then forgetting about it would be more acceptable.

I have been back here too long, and here seems so normal.

I forget that here is not normal, and that I have really been there and seen the truth.

I have smelled the truth, walked the truth, held the truth, tasted the truth.

(People waiting for food rations.)

And although it is easy to settle back in and be comfortable again, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am different because of the gift of sight I was given.

I don't fit in here anymore, and most of the time I don't want to.

I want to wrestle this knowing for the rest of my life. I want to wrestle with what I have, and what they don't have.

I want to know the chasm between the two, and I want it to bother me every single day that I wake up in the land of the lush.



I can breathe deep because it still hurts.

The wound is open.

My heart still carries the bruise.

The day the wounds vanish and the bruising is gone would be the biggest tragedy of my entire life.

I cannot imagine sleeping there, but yet I don't want to ever forget that someone does. Lots of someones do.

So I will continue to pick the scab sometimes. I will squeeze out the blood. I will let it hurt again.

And sometimes I will just choose to go back and open a new wound. Going is what is on my heart today.

But sometimes I just have to stay and pick at the scab.
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