“I Walk Along A Street And See In The Faces Of The Passersby Not The Expression They Really Have But

Everything you did to me, I remember.

Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head.

— Warsan Shire, from “Extreme Girlhood,” Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

02/27/2021

It feels warm inside.

Like a boiling well that makes you feel fuzzy;

Its water ascends so as to reach the furthest parts of the body.

Its heaviness is counteracted by how lightweight the body feels.

It reminds me of the aftereffects of getting drunk.

Sometimes I feel like I am in a bathtub filling up faster than I can drain it. And lately, the drain is clogged and I am drowning and drowning and drowning.

I am losing air faster than I can handle; killing me slowly, suffocating me with black spots filtering over my eyes, decorating my room’s walls.

It’s a strange sensation, that of time running out. Who chained me to the bottom of this bathtub in the first place? Who is turning on the water, was it me?

I am the hand of ruin; the catalyst to my own destruction. Salvation seems beyond reason and unfathomable beneath the water.

Writing was my drain.

It breathes fire into my lungs and ice into veins. It’s the only time I feel in control, powerful… alive.

Now, the doubt, guilt and shame ties me to the silence. It weighs me down and binds my hands below. I don’t think I can tell which way is up anymore.

Words are losing meaning and the space between them is an abyss.

I am told to have hope. To write of the sun after rainy days. But what do you write about when the sun burns you charred and the rain soaks you to the bone?

God, I need five more minutes of peace.

I know it’s too much to ask, I haven’t been your favorite for years.

I am drowning, lost and fearful.

My heart has turned to solid as my body sinks further. Is floating up even worth it at this point? Or should I let the darkness continue its course? After all, who am I but a hollow vessel to tell it to stop.

“It’s always dark. The sky if not grey, is black. The snow thigh high slowly grows waist deep. But the tall woman, her dark shawl pulled taut, walks on anyway. The tall woman walks alone, deeper into the woods among a crowd of trees she finds her place”

— Sujata Bhatt, from “She Finds Her Place”, Collected Poems

“Why? Why does what was beautiful suddenly shatter in hindsight because it concealed dark truths? Why does the memory of years of happy marriage turn to gall when our partner is revealed to have had a lover all those years? Because such a situation makes it impossible to be happy? But we were happy! Sometimes the memory of happiness cannot stay true because it ended unhappily. Because happiness is only real if it lasts forever? Because things always end painfully if they contained pain, conscious or unconscious, all along? But what is unconscious, unrecognized pain?” 

 The Reader // Bernhard Schlink

damn baby you are beyond mortal comprehension, wanna make me insane?

— I'm glad your sickness, Marina Tsvetaeva (translated from the Russian by Elaine Feinstein)

Start,start,start...where to start....

The vibe around me has changed since the New Years.

Being aware of oneself is hard although seemingly doable as far as I've tried.Nonetheless,being aware of the people around you as well as everything that comes with the everyday life is not a joke.

Empathy makes part of it seem right,despite how much hurt I feel afterwards.

It's so tiring honestly.

The good thing turned to be that I actually accomplished the most important (almost everything) goals that I had set for myself in 2020.I'm a new person as a result of that.

There's still so much going on but my giddiness is obfuscating every thought.

Well,looks like I'll have something to ponder over the next month.

2021/01/06