At the end of the day I feel small. I’m ready to collapse into myself, after having been so strung out. These days are a the equivalent of a taffy machine I once saw as a kid. They pull and they pull and you hope you won’t break, but it never ceases. Something new, some call must be heeded, some battle entered, and at the end it’s switched off, I’m released and told to gather myself.
And I do.
The next time, be it a day or more, sometimes only a matter of minutes or weeks, I strap once more into my armor and I feel disjointed. It’s comfortable. It’s part of me, and it feels right. I’m ready to heft and to heave, to swing into violence and let the rage take me. It takes me so readily these days.
There are times I am proud, almost pleased to put this armor on. Not for what it represents, or the symbols upon it. But because it makes me feel bigger, almost real. Solid. I tried explaining it to my sister once. She just laughed. Then she punched me and hurt her hand.
The armor is meant to hold us up. To hold us together. I don’t think it does. I think it’s meant to make us feel impervious. Invulnerable.
Today’s art is courtesy of Daryl Mandryk from Vancouver, Canada.