Refuge is not a choice. It is built into my bones. It might need to be excavated and discovered over and over again, but it lies within my very being. Do I believe this? I could be lying to myself.
I could be playing the part of architect, designing a haven above my heart with chambers placed where I need them the most. But it's just the design. I can't claim to be skilled in construction. (I hit my thumb, not the nail, with the hammer. I give up and leave the skeleton behind, without walls. Who will live in an unfinished house? Where will the framed pictures hang?)
People want to display their love and hide the side of them that's unrefined.
To live my life as if it's the opening night of a show at a pristine gallery is not a choice. I cannot define the avalanche of events that forced me here today. Might as well invest in a mop because the water from the melting snow will warp the wooden gallery floors.
Maybe no one will notice. Maybe everyone will be too occupied with observing the nonexistent art. They will discuss and critique and leave before it gets too late. Time to clean up the cocktail napkins and half-empty plastic cups. They will go home to warm sheets, not warped ground beneath their feet. (I have impeccable balance. I believe I can keep walking.)
My refuge is lost. I tried to follow it down halls and patterns and shades of amber that caught the light just right. I was distracted. I was lost in the thought of how odd it was that these pictures could hang so straight on what was wall-less. If nothing else, I have confidence in these cocktail napkins. They can be discarded without display and easily replaced. Am I envious of a square of paper?
Refuge will be found on the page. Refuge has already been found on the page. Refuge refuses walls because refuge is a harbor, a way out. All it takes is for me to forget about the uneven floor and remember to walk.