Waves of Mercy
Somewhere, while adventuring through life, someone taught me that it was correct procedure to lock the perturbation of anger inside of me and keep it there in fear of burdening others, leaving me to visit pain behind closed doors. By the agency of my distorted guidance, I had been led to the consequence of self-destruction, often times leaving me to feel more helpless than if I were to set my pain free from the moment it was conceived. Due to being disoriented with nowhere to turn, I was left lying on a bathroom floor, contemplating life or death with worn metal tearing seams into my skin. I was a victim of being poorly led by a fallacious life-coach, leaving me to find a catholicon for pain on my own. Luckily for me, along my journey for a cure, I found a life-coach worth living for: Jesus.
Expeditions to the beach were far from rare occasions. On a weekly basis, I trekked two hours to my safe haven. My surgeon, Jesus, would greet me upon my arrival. He and I had a near kinship after just months of meeting. We sent each other words of affirmation, knowing neither of us would discontinue our weekly appointments. Through his consistent ability to relieve me of pain, I trusted him with everything I had left of me. He led me down a stairwell where he asked me to remove my shoes and place myself on the shoreline, just below the last watermark from the tide. With my bare toes digging into the familiar ground, I rest belly-up, fully clothed on the bed of sand, begging for contentment. My eyes fastened shut; I allowed skilled hands to heal me.
Before my lips could spew words of praise, he picked up my favorite instrument for his regimen: saltwater. A sovereign hand directed the tool with a serene disposition, swiftly demanding tides of saltwater to brush over my mangled and lifeless appendages, destroyed by crusty razor blades and flaming matches. He lifted them delicately to claim them as his own. Miniscule pieces of deteriorated stone glided across...