He was only my Savior. My life was His, yet my love was bound in a selfish and worldly heart and it would take years to manage it loose.
Chila WoychikMots clés inspirational
In this book, much is metaphorical, not as it seems. It’s written for writing’s sake, as if I were to say, “Let me tell you I’m dying.” Well of course I am. So are you.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing metaphors writing-process
This isn’t a religious book though I mention God, not a medical advisory though I speak of pain. It’s a circus, a mortuary, a grade school, a limousine ride. Will it be worth the paper it’s printed on or the screen you hold in your hand? I just hope you remember it next week.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing writing-process
A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing death metaphor stream-of-consciousness
I continue to live inside a dichotomy: what was and what shall be. The pain in my skull is me trying to mesh the two.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing dichotomy cognitive-dissonance stream-of-consciousness
Life is flinching in the midst of breathing, gasping at the thought of dying. It’s climbing ropeless up sheer rock faces, groping for the next finger-hole of hope. Steady on! Only a thousand feet to go and after that a jungle, a minefield, a rapids. (Can I stop smiling now?)
Once, not long ago, I was flung off the cliff of the moment, thrust into an illicit relationship with destiny, an affair not of my making. Was I making love or being raped? The lines were fuzzy.
Mots clés life writing suffering death-and-dying hardness sufferings
Let’s face it: suffering discredits goodness. I’m agnostic in practice though faith-based in theory. I used to pray but now know he’ll do what he darn well pleases when he darn well pleases. Will he listen? Maybe. We have a book that says so, but how much happens beyond that book, I can’t say. That’s agnosticism in its bleakest and most honest form. Don’t judge me, yet believe me when I tell you that years of abuse tend to wring out every ounce of one’s ability to understand and adhere to faith in standard form.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing suffering prayer agnosticism agnostic abuse
I’ve learned to lick
my own foul wounds
and prize the taste of ache.
Mots clés pain poetry post-traumatic-stress-disorder post-traumatic-stress
God, O God, where art thou? Thou art as distant to me as the lady combing rice in the Yunnan Province of China or a piece of floating space debris circling Pegasi. In this feeling-dead world of post traumatic stress, skepticism is king, queen, and court jester.
Chila WoychikMots clés pain skepticism post-traumatic-stress-disorder post-traumatic-stress
I’ve never had a rat, never chased one. I chase my own tail and that’s enough. I must now make plans for the day I catch it.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing metaphor rats metaphorical
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