Have you ever felt so heavy, you seem rooted? Your toes sprouting from some foundation too deep inside the earth's soil. Tethered to something you can't even see. You pull and pull, but you never move. You never break free. It's not working. You search for something, anything, to cut yourself from the stems, but they are your roots, after all. They are a part of you, and the pain of trying to free yourself starts to be too much, so it is just easier to stay rooted. Never moving.
The heaviness becomes even heavier. The roots pull so hard, your chest feels like it's caving in, going deeper, crushing your lungs. The roots seem to be sucking up every ounce of hydration they can find from the earth as it overflows your body, down your flushed, stressed cheeks. You'd give anything to cut these roots, but it seems absolutely impossible without losing some part of yourself. Impossible without hurting.
The liquid overflow seeps right back down to nurture the roots, so they keep growing. Getting deeper, pulling harder. A cycle. Soaking up the earth and filling you until it overflows again, streaming back down to supply. You want to stop, but you just don't know how to end it. A perfect circle. Perfect timing.
Little vines begin to form, swirling around your head, snaking their way into your ears to remind you how hard it will be to break free. Wrapping your skull in a line so closely, your brain forgets how to feel anything else but the tightness, the suffocating numbness, the pressure. Your ears clogged, barred from hearing anything but what is growing inside you, what is holding you down.
Foliage and weeds form in your chest, shading any light that tries to penetrate to your soul, creating darkness wherever they lay. Bringing insects, parasites, to feast on any growing beauty left fighting for its life. The gnawing becomes unbearable until there's barely anything left to feel.
You're covered. Harder now more than ever to cut yourself free. It has consumed your whole body, your whole soul, your whole self. If you cut one root, you'll continue to be grounded. Why try to for one? Why try at all? This is where you are now. Rooted in this gravity for the rest of your life. Barely breathing.
On the outside, your appearance is calming and you're just a beautiful part of the world, but the inside is suffocating, dry, and harsh. The inside is painful. You're falling. It's a difficult sensation to describe when you look so calm and composed of life in abundance. It's even more difficult to fight.
Finally with a supremely shallow breath and an overly infested body, you cut one root because you cannot withstand the pressure anymore. The pain fills every single inch of you, intense, flashing, and strong. It lasts only a few minutes before you feel relief. A minuscule amount of pressure has been alleviated from you. One less weight anchoring you to the ground. You cut one more. The pain rushes through you again, but it doesn't last as long. That's all you can handle for the moment, but with two roots gone, some of the leaves die, letting a small amount of light back in. The vines loosen their grip around your head long enough for your mind to gain some sense of wonder, and now there isn't enough water pulled up for the overflow.
For once, you don't feel so heavy. For once, you feel a little bit more like yourself, and you can see a way out. You have to keep cutting the roots. Maybe you can only cut two at a time, and maybe there are 100 more, but the light, the fresh air, the cleanliness free you from the spot you've been tethered to for so long. Each root cut allows you to breathe a little deeper. Your lungs fill your chest up. The light fills your soul again. Your stressed cheeks take a break from the waterfall.
You have to feel the pain.
Close your eyes.
Hold your breath.
Cut another root.
The heaviness becomes even heavier. The roots pull so hard, your chest feels like it's caving in, going deeper, crushing your lungs. The roots seem to be sucking up every ounce of hydration they can find from the earth as it overflows your body, down your flushed, stressed cheeks. You'd give anything to cut these roots, but it seems absolutely impossible without losing some part of yourself. Impossible without hurting.
The liquid overflow seeps right back down to nurture the roots, so they keep growing. Getting deeper, pulling harder. A cycle. Soaking up the earth and filling you until it overflows again, streaming back down to supply. You want to stop, but you just don't know how to end it. A perfect circle. Perfect timing.
Little vines begin to form, swirling around your head, snaking their way into your ears to remind you how hard it will be to break free. Wrapping your skull in a line so closely, your brain forgets how to feel anything else but the tightness, the suffocating numbness, the pressure. Your ears clogged, barred from hearing anything but what is growing inside you, what is holding you down.
Foliage and weeds form in your chest, shading any light that tries to penetrate to your soul, creating darkness wherever they lay. Bringing insects, parasites, to feast on any growing beauty left fighting for its life. The gnawing becomes unbearable until there's barely anything left to feel.
You're covered. Harder now more than ever to cut yourself free. It has consumed your whole body, your whole soul, your whole self. If you cut one root, you'll continue to be grounded. Why try to for one? Why try at all? This is where you are now. Rooted in this gravity for the rest of your life. Barely breathing.
On the outside, your appearance is calming and you're just a beautiful part of the world, but the inside is suffocating, dry, and harsh. The inside is painful. You're falling. It's a difficult sensation to describe when you look so calm and composed of life in abundance. It's even more difficult to fight.
Finally with a supremely shallow breath and an overly infested body, you cut one root because you cannot withstand the pressure anymore. The pain fills every single inch of you, intense, flashing, and strong. It lasts only a few minutes before you feel relief. A minuscule amount of pressure has been alleviated from you. One less weight anchoring you to the ground. You cut one more. The pain rushes through you again, but it doesn't last as long. That's all you can handle for the moment, but with two roots gone, some of the leaves die, letting a small amount of light back in. The vines loosen their grip around your head long enough for your mind to gain some sense of wonder, and now there isn't enough water pulled up for the overflow.
For once, you don't feel so heavy. For once, you feel a little bit more like yourself, and you can see a way out. You have to keep cutting the roots. Maybe you can only cut two at a time, and maybe there are 100 more, but the light, the fresh air, the cleanliness free you from the spot you've been tethered to for so long. Each root cut allows you to breathe a little deeper. Your lungs fill your chest up. The light fills your soul again. Your stressed cheeks take a break from the waterfall.
You have to feel the pain.
Close your eyes.
Hold your breath.
Cut another root.
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