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The Enfolding

By Hannah Petuha

I can’t let it enfold me. 

The days I have come to know are both my source of joy and ache. Amid the pain of the world, the pangs of my heart and the penury, I can’t let it enfold me. When I reflect upon the people I know, I see the flesh that covers the bone. There is a mind in there somewhere, perhaps a soul too. I see the flesh drinking too little or too much. And they all try and find the one, but nobody finds the one. The flesh just keep looking by crawling in and out of beds. It seems that this cycle never stops- and I try not to let that thought enfold me. 

Another thought enters my mind; the fact that that people constantly rearrange their lives like furniture, moving it around for when the next best person comes along. To think that people live their lives from one to another with no in-between scares me. There is beauty in being alone. Nothing can beat it, not even crawling in and out of someone’s bed. 

There is beauty in being alone, the flesh needs to learn that, because the truth is, there is a place in everyone’s heart that will never be filled. A space, even during the best moments spent crawling in and out of beds, that will never be full. I try not to let that space enfold me. 

When I’ve had enough of reflecting I go for drives around town. I drive around the streets an inch away from tearing, ashamed of the life my flesh is tied to. What force beckons me to think this type of way? To think of others in the midst of my mystery, to think of others in my times of bliss. How unfair my mind is, to think of others who rarely think of me. Flesh only thinks about their flesh. 

And so it becomes, this admonishing reminder, to not let everything enfold me. I must let myself be alone at times. To reflect, to think of others who do not think about me. To acknowledge the space in my heart, and everyone else’s, that can never be filled. Sometimes I think I am wise for this, but then again, I must not let that thought enfold me.