a place where tender things grow, a desk with a calendar where weeks are marked in spattered red, mumbles and moans as i try to decide how to take the next breath. borrowing hope at unspeakable interest, trying to see sunrise.
it has been a year. well, i say it has, but i suppose it depends on where you’re counting from. somewhere between june and august. i don’t suppose it matters and perhaps it is good that a ‘firm date’ isn’t something i can readily recall. i didn’t expect it to rise up like this. perhaps i should have. all things considered.
part of me is angry for it, and part understands. mostly, it’s just heaviness. in this moment, more than ‘just’ any one aspect. they were always something of a weave. some strands silk, some twine, some barb wire. but all the same, in the end… undone.
life goes on and so do i, and my fingers aren’t stuck in it like they were, which is good. the parts that linger are not things i’m holding… so i ponder if they will ever really be gone. i’m not sure i know, or that i want to know.
the dreams have stopped, which is a relief. but the ache and weight remain…. which is… something i will not speak further of. no sense in it.
i suppose there’s no chance of it lightening until after august 21st. perhaps it will be the last time. i can hope.
i can’t tell if i’m comforted for not diving into it here, laying it all out again… or just relieved that i no longer feel the need to do so. maybe it’s the same.
i can’t lie – ever since i realized what was happening, i’ve been crying. not the keening stuff, just quiet tears, here and there… slow trickles.
Darshan Ambient’s ‘Pebble in my Shoe’ on the stream. apropos. pebble in my soul, i suppose. funny how that keeps coming up. pebbles and ashes and silty riverbeds, or oceans… always cold. cold water. cold heart. cold silence. cold.
i dislike how so many things remind me. still. i can hardly stand to hear someone tell me that i’m kind anymore.
i keep the lowercase and i keep the pebble and i keep the ache and in spite of myself, i’m still here. even as i don’t really know why. even as i begin to feel very stupid and foolish for it. no, that’s a lie, i’ve felt stupid and foolish for it all along.
it is raining in my heart and the ground is nothing but a bruise. drops feel like stones and everything is too sore to do more than quiver for it.
the flowers still grow, but they hurt coming up. Fous De La Mer’s ‘Waiting for the sun’. fucking synchronicity. the moon never finds the sun.
i remember when i hated to sleep. lately, i long for it. to be dreamless and thankful for oblivion.