Slow Crash

It’s coming I warn my heart in that soft, still silence. It’s coming, the train far off in the past. Rushing to meet your present. Rushing to shatter your fabricated illusions, the well crafted tapestries you’ve so carefully hung up in your life. The story you’ve told yourself. The wares you’ve sold to the world. Tear them down. Tear them all down. Pull out the threads. Unravel the story, unravel it all.
Everyone thinks you’re mad. “These threads are yours why are you calling for their destruction?”
Because the train is coming. Don’t you hear it? It’s close now. It’s loud now. My heart is beating wildly between my ears. Drowning out the calls “You’re mad! You’re mad!”

We’re on the tracks. We’re in the path of destruction. I can see it. The swift, black beast is approaching this sacred home.
“You’re mad. You’re mad.”

It’s here.
Down comes the rain, out pours the shame hidden in the deep. All of the tapestries in tatters on the floor. No walls, all threads at my feet. Dripping in agony. Wrinkled with truth. The light surrounding me burns so hotly on skin long held inside my shelter.

“You need to leave now. Everything is destroyed now.”

But I knew this was coming. It needed to come. I can rewrite the story with these threads. These are my threads. Why would I leave them because they’ve been torn? Why would I not sew them together more beautifully? Why would I stay in the path of the train if I didn’t know my tapestries needed to be blown to pieces so I could rehang a more beautiful life? You’re mad they say. And they’re right. But so am I.