Susan Sontag believed that there is a kingdom of the well and a kingdom of the sick. I find this to be very true, and now as I reside again in the latter rather than the former, people come to visit me far less often in my not-so-new home. Even those whom  I love and trust and who love me seem to not be able to entirely cross the bridge of my illness. They seem to be able to tolerate a bit of my strange land, or they just avoid it, pretend it doesn’t exist. This makes the border difficult to cross both ways.

      I don’t know when it’s necessary for me to emigrate, and sometimes I’m too tired to. I desperately don’t want it to be this way, but I’m finding that the reality of my new citizenship is too hard to ignore. Maybe I’m too tired to always make the trip. Maybe this is where I have been created to work.

      And maybe I like this tribe better; maybe I find more humanity, more beauty, more grace with the other broken, the others with chaos running through their veins. They seem less like a slippery mirage than the other tribe and much more like good, dark dirt, soft and tangible and visceral to the touch, rich in all things good, easily able to grow something else beautiful from their being turned inside out and outside in again.


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