Skip to main content

The Edge of Being.

It’s back.

Whether you claim to want it or not, you check—you want to see it happen. You are drawn to it.

It’s a high fall. I walk on the tightrope, not balancing anymore. I use the time I have efficiently, but time is long and mine doesn't feel like it. I fill these hours with music and strange white noise, as my mind can’t exist in silence. I think all the time, and that’s what the world wants: never being enough, and yet being too much.

I think what you want me to think. The silence is unbearable, I say but I know it's my mind. You only hear it when you listen and who listens to strangers? 

Keep your distance.

One only wants to be itself. You were born as broccoli. No picky child is going to eat you. You aren’t a punishment. You don’t have to be processed to be digestible. You might not like the taste of yourself, but how will you ever know if you never try?

I know what’s coming; I don’t want to try. Now you are the picky child.

Stop protecting yourself from suffering. Suffering will find you; your way of shielding yourself will never work. Neither will being emotionally stunted, bottling up, and pushing everything under the rug.

The fear of being yourself—how dare you judge yourself when you haven’t even begun to be?

The realization that you can create is terrifying. For all the people who haven’t understood you, you are one of them. For all the people who haven’t understood you, you could understand yourself. I wonder how God felt? I wonder how He feels?

I feel as undone as my bed. The blanket is strewn and pressed into the metal frame, the bulges spilling out in between, like my personality from my mouth. Do you notice the gap in my teeth, or was it something else?

Please be superficial and fake, because I know how to deal with that. You are superficial and fake. I am. I don’t know how to be anything else.

I don’t like the taste of myself. I am the child. I am the broccoli. This is a stupid metaphor. Maybe I am an acquired taste.

The rope digs into the bottom of my feet. I keep walking, knowing the rope beneath me is frayed, but it’s a lie I can live with.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more