It stands on the ground of what became hollow. There is a well from which I've been drafting, thirsty and watching myself hand love over by the cupful, pour buckets of it, give and give this precious resource as if springs never run dry.
Six months ago I was in crisis mode. Screaming under the smile I constructed, exhausting all my systems, focusing on anything else with sudden moments of awareness like opening the door of a soundproof room in the middle of a battle. I've been slamming the door back closed over and over, pushing the furniture up against it, hiding in the furthest corner, battling distractions because they were safer than the war.
I left that room behind. I left it because I couldn't take it with me. I left it because I wanted to know I could come back to it, and have it live in the same place. I left it because one time when the door was open I made a choice I couldn't undo.
Now I see that it was a small room. It shrunk as I did. Every loving act I didn't give myself tightened the quarters. So I am here, alone, ready to take this barren landscape and mold it in to what I choose. I want turrets, and nonsensical hallways, and succulents everywhere, and big bold colors, and altars to all my goddesses, and cool breezes blowing through open windows, and natural light, and I can have anything, and I made this choice, and I understand it now, and I know it will still be hard, and I know I will be okay, I know I will be okay, I know I will be good, I know I will be great, I know I will be.