One way or another,
I am always missing the delusion.
I mean I miss it.
Literally.
Metaphorically.
Viscerally.
I miss the way it organized chaos.
The way it made me feel.
The way it gave me something to believe in.
It was a lie.
It was my lie.
It is a story I told myself
that solved a classy problem.
That predicted my progress.
That made sense of my ache.
That made me believable.
is that I don’t know.
I don’t know it isn’t true.
Not yet.
Self-deception
without awareness.
The story was working.
The story is working.
Or at least, it was doing something.
It was helping me hold it together.
Until it didn’t.
Until I couldn’t.
Until truth showed up.
Cleaner.
Sharper.
More clarity.
That’s the part that hurts.
Not the loss of what was.
The loss of what I thought it was.
I don’t want to go back.
I miss who I thought I was there.
Who I believed you were there.
What I thought this was going to become.
That version is gone.
I’m grateful for the truth.
It will be different.
Trust that it will be better.
I miss the lie.