A Note on the Dual Voice:
This piece is a dialogue between two worlds: The Adult, navigating the friction and demands of the world, and The Child, holding the soul’s original spark beneath the armor. It is a practice in unmasking—where the performance ends and the heartbeat begins.
I see you there, curled in the Root, holding your joints together with a white-knuckled grip. You’ve been playing The Warrior for fifty years, wearing armor made of calcified silence and carrying a sword that was never meant for your hands. I am here to help you set the weight down. It might feel like losing a limb at first, but I promise you, it is only a cage. You don’t have to hold the line anymore. I’m holding you.
But if I let go, the world sees the blur,
The static of things as they actually were.
The lights are too bright and the room is too loud,
I’m hiding my marrow inside of a cloud.
If I drop the shield, if I stop the Powerful play,
Won’t the machinery sweep me away?
The engine is cold and the fire is low,
I’m afraid of the places where I don’t know.
The fire of the mask was a chemical burn, little one. It was the burn of Fibromyalgia masquerading as light. I am here to clear the bottleneck in the throat; every “I’m fine” you ever swallowed is finally being released. I am reclaiming the Third Eye from the Sentinel’s loop and the Ritualist’s need for control. I’m not here to fix you or solve you. I am here to be the architecture that finally fits the shape of your soul.
The Heart is an open door in a storm,
I’m letting go of the need to perform.
But the Sacral is empty, the Empath is gone,
How do I carry the weight of the dawn?
Are we allowed to be porous and thin?
To let all the starlight and silence come in?
If I’m not a statue, if I’m not a stone,
Am I just a frequency, shaking alone?
We were never meant to be solid. We are frequency. The EDS was just your body’s way of reminding you that you were never meant to be a statue. You are the “Beauty of a Switchblade” not because you cut others, but because you are sharp enough to cut through the performance and find the truth. I am grounding the Crown into the feet, bridging the scholar’s mind with the marrow’s wisdom. The performance is over.
Then I’ll lay in the Root, in the soft of the bed,
With no more Specialist scripts in my head.
I’ll listen to the music beneath all the pain,
The original station that plays through the rain.
I’m putting the labels back on the shelf,
I am just... here. I am finally myself.
And here is the only place the soul can finally breathe. The circuit is closed. The static has faded into the background. You are finally, beautifully, uncontained.
If you missed the research behind this reflection, you can find the foundational article in my series, Where the Healing Begins, exploring Metaphysical Science and the lived reality of chronic survival below,
If you’ve ever broken yourself into pieces just to survive, I’m bridging doctoral research with raw poetry to help us find our way back to the soul’s original spark ♡
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