tears of healing

Sometimes, you’re so used to spinning that the eventual halt hits you like an iceberg. But you’re no titanic, you tell yourself.
And then a voice whispers:
You’re not the warm droplets in the air.
You’re not the sunshine peeping from in between the door.
You’re not the colour of your towel from one year ago.
You’re not the wrinkles on your face.
You’re not the light bulb that is used to giving you company for nights at length.
You’re not the knots in the pit of your stomach.
You’re not that island situated between attachment and its opposite.
You’re sticky tears of healing that have found their way out into the world.
Finally. 

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