I forgot to write yesterday. Well I didn’t forget. I thought about it, but had nothing to say. Except that I’m tired. Which isn’t new or inspiring or anything other than a feeling. Or a lack of feeling after a long day of tense hope weaving with subtle worry.
So I didn’t write. I broke the streak. But it doesn’t matter. I am writing now.
It’s not poetic, or well thought out. It is just what it is. Letters molded into words. Words braided into sentences. Sentences stacked into paragraphs.
Not sure it means anything and yet it means too much to give away.
I keep thinking about the past like it could be changed.
Like I could rewrite one scene and save everything.
Just give me a pen and I’ll edit my way out of this mess.
Ghosts dance in my living room,
swaying back and forth.
Graceful twirls and smooth slides across the floor,
laughter echoes on the walls
hollow steps of who I was before
And they wonder why I don’t dance anymore.
The beauty of the day came in boxes full of books.
Like Christmas morning,
each box another sort of surprise
even though I was expecting them.
I am very tired,
but it’s a pleasure to know
that books exist
and they are waiting to be read.
I’ve been struggling a lot recently with just doing life. I turn things into poetry because it’s easier to deal with that way. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Make a metaphor so you don’t have to face reality.
I get these moments when I see the scenes of my life adjacently. Like I’m not fully in my body. It’s a disconnecting feeling to never be fully in the moment. To think in terms of context. To wonder if any of it is real or if I’m dreaming. Like, how the fuck did I get here? This wasn’t how I imagined any of my life. But I’m not sure if any of the alternatives would have been better. Maybe I’d still be outside of everything, psycho-analyzing.
There are too many paths I thought about going down. Too many adventures named almost and maybe, someday. I could have been a photographer, or a singer-songwriter, or a writer. I could have fallen in love with different people. I could have had my heart broken by strangers I’ll never meet now.
It’s like that book The Midnight Library. Except I’m not dead, and I’m not actually stuck in a library full of all my regrets. Even though some days it feels like it. I honestly wonder how long my Book of Regrets is.
Life is one big fuckery. And I don’t understand how any of this is real. Maybe it’s not.
It is a continual existential crisis every single day.
And I’m coming to understand how much I dislike the expectations of others. I don’t like being told what to do or how to act or how to feel. This is not a shocking theory, but everything is just so…messy. And all I want to do is clean everything and everyone up the way I want to. But it’s impossible.
Honestly, all I want to do is read books, listen to good music, dance around the house, write about heartache, and not have to worry about pleasing anyone else.
I haven’t felt a fire in forever. Flames have not flickered in my gut for the fervor of another’s favor.
I fear this loss of flavor for life. Feeling moments only faintly. I’m fraying at the fringe of my facade.
I fail at facing faults in my faith. Fairly certain that falling would fade like a fresh infectious fever for a friend who flirts with frost.
I haven’t felt a fire in forever. But I will keep flint and stone just in case.
Because this is the only way to change. To want. To ask. To be an unlocked house in a neighborhood of robbers. Palms open, arms extended. Voice unshaking. Broaden yourself like a target to say “Aim. Shoot. I am ready. I invite hope in. I know failure may follow.” -Clementine von Radics
To be vulnerable.
To be wild.
To be fearless.
To be everything
To love the darkness
because you trust light will come too.
You are worthy of hope.
I just want to pack a bag
with my guitar,
a good pair of sunglasses,
a couple of good books,
an infinite playlist of all my favorite songs
and get in my car.
I’d roll the windows down,
let the wind rush over me,
hands drumming on the wheel.
sing loud and wild.
I won’t even care if I’m off key.
Take the next turn
just to see where it takes me.
Stop in towns I’ve never seen.
Say hello to strangers
and ask them where they’ve been,
where they want to go.
Let the land unfold before me,
beautiful and unruly.
Breathe in the horizon,
Walk barefoot until my feet
have memorized every crevices
of the earth.
I just want to pack a bag
get in the car,
It sloshes around inside me. Liquid apathy, raw and unsettled minerals of forgotten hopes.
I told my therapist about it. I don’t think I explained it right.
Why can’t I feel anything?
“Be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way round or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves.
Empty your mind, be formless. Shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water my friend.” -Bruce Lee
This has been my Word of the Year for 2021. Sometimes it’s hard to be water. I feel so tense and stuck. Sometimes I wonder if the water even flows. Or if I’m just an empty cup. I’ve given everything to others and now I have nothing left but vapors.
I don’t feel excitement anymore. I don’t have anything I look forward to. Just going through the motions of life. I’m too tired. Too busy. Too dehydrated.
How do I rediscover my thirst for life?
The ebb and flow of a day. Piece together peace. A moment is all. But it falls apart, and softens edges.
Why is every minor inconvenience disproportionally catastrophic?
It is unconscionable to be that angry at the world. Just chill the fuck out.
It’s not going to matter.
Everything feels big. And I can’t wrap my arms around it.