Roots of Renewal

Grief has a strange way of revealing what we’ve tried to hide—even from ourselves. In the aftermath of illusion, I find myself face to face with the rawest parts of my being: longing, delusion, destruction, and the quiet hope of rebirth.

The gray, melancholy sky looms, mirroring the weighted grief in my heart. A storm brews within me, a tornado of emotions rising from my belly to my throat, desperate to purge the fractured, dysfunctional parts of myself that reach for the inevitable yet harsh truths fueling my pain.

Why does the wounded cling so fiercely to an idea that is nothing but poison? Why, despite the undeniable evidence, does my twisted mind spiral back into the well-crafted illusions of our hollow bond?

If only I knew how to sever the cord of longing—or must one endure the slow decay, waiting for the vine of connection to rot alongside the tumorous remains of my heart?

Perhaps, as I bleed into the earth, my sacrifice will feed the soil, birthing something greater from my ruin. I summon the darkest parts of me to lay my dying self to rest—not in haste, but with reverence—so that I may watch the seeds of my heart take root, even as their first tendrils twist in uncertainty.

No longer will I wither as a fragile flower. I will rise, as I was always meant to—an ancient oak, unshaken by passing storms, its roots entwined with the deepest truths of the earth.