I said I was gonna finish that.
I was gonna do this, gonna do that,
But I didn’t.
But I still wouldn’t.
Why?
I’m tired. I’m downtrodden.
I feel forsaken, forgotten,
I feel left out.
I feel rotten.
How am I supposed to feel?
I feel like I ask myself this so much.
I feel like I’m asking for so much,
Yet still not asking for enough.
From myself. From others.
From the world.
It bothers.
Me.
You.
We.
No, there is no “we.”
Yes there is.
When do you know if you’re preserving your peace or if you’re truly just being a coward?
When do you know if you’re giving yourself rest or if you’re just denying reality for as long as possible?
When did you want to come out of your rock? Out of you’re encavement?
Out of your whisper of a reality full of fakeness?
It’s clenches your heart to write about this. You know it. You agree with it.
But what are you going to do?
You’ve threatened yourself from living fully, from experiencing fully, from being together with others fully.
I think you remember when you started doing this to yourself.
The times when your eyes started to glow when talking about the future.
The times when you stopped wading in the waters of the present.
The times when you started paddling for the crest of the wave,
only for it to crash down wildly at you.
But you accepted it anyway.
You masochist.
Frills. Frills. Pollen. Chills.
Some are passing,
Some are still.
First day of spring.
Here it comes.
Here it lays.
Running through daffodils.
Making new days.
When will the day come where I don’t have to think of just my survival? Of other people’s survival?
Is there a moment where I am allowed to dream freely?
To truly see all the possibilities?
To be open to dreams I could never even fathom by myself,
because it’s just that free-willing?
The kind of fantasies that dance around each other,
creating new dreams with each step and movement.
They’re so free that they create dreams upon dreams upon dreams,
compounding across realities that you thought you could never reach.
I’d like that someday. somehow. anyhow.
However that could be possible.
I’d gladly fall asleep to that.
Sometimes you’re just upset over all the humans that did wrong to this world,
that there’s no one else to be upset with.
Kind of like how angst is spilling through your fingers, gripped tight into a fist,
and it just leaves you.
Because there’s nothing else to hang onto.
No one else to get mad at,
because you’re already mad at all that exists in the world.
But that’s when you take a breath.
Take a gulp of the air and filter it through your bones
to remind yourself that all of the world’s troubles are not for you alone,
not for you to bear all by yourself.
Your anger is normal.
It is validated.
Don’t forget to bring yourself peace when you need it.
Numb.
The type of numbness that I feel isn’t the one where you can’t hear anything,
But it’s the one where things start going in slow-motion.
Slow-motion that eventually halts to a stop.
Like turning off the TV.
Like not remembering when you fell asleep to the darkness.
Like choosing to walk away and close the windows.
I turn around and face indifference.
To my left is unsurprised expectation.
To the right is overflowing contempt.
Right in front of me is recognition.
Wherever I step, weeds grow to entangle me.
They’re willing to trip me up the moment my feet land.
They’re willing to cage me in and parade to others showing off their bounty.
Recognition is what keeps me calm,
But perhaps what it really is my desensitized body.
Numbness from desensitization,
Riddled with overflowing contempt and unsurprised expectation.
Numb.
There’s a terrible tornado happening inside my head.
I don’t know what it’s doing, I don’t know what’s been said.
I am drowning. I am floating. I am greeting the dead.
I play with parasites, yet act as host.
Simultaneously, death isn’t my enemy.
How ill-timed it is to be walking around with the spirits.
Let go of that. Let go of this.
Shroud me in detrimental bliss.
Three breaths, in and out, skip a rock or two.
I’m choosing not to be mad, giving grace to me and you.
How should I interpret things?
Processing trauma is harder than it seems.
I am just like you. You are just like me.
We, lemons, don’t fall far from the tree.
Day and night.
Water and light.
Traipsing through the evening faerie lights.
Swishing through the mellow moon rise.
Come morning, there they are running.
It’s the leaves.
They’re chasing each other.
One after another.
And another, and another, and…whoosh.
They made it safely across the road.
Life is precious. Life is gentle.
Life is kind— if you let it be.
Life is painful, disdainful,
merciless and more— if you allow it to be.
It doesn’t have to be it.
No need for those those cavities.
Yes, it’s unavoidable. Sure.
But there is a time for everything.
Better to let it out than keep it within,
Life is precious. Life is gentle.
Life is kind— when you let it be.
Carmel 