Skip to main content

Loop Around Me.

Slowly crochet around me, inch by inch, wrapping me in soft yarn. The thin instrument clinks when it falls, and I know because it slipped from my fingers before. I pick it up and try again. I don’t know how to crochet, but there’s something comforting about the idea of surrounding myself in those simple, repetitive patterns. 

Each loop feels like a tiny shield. Don’t let them find me. I want to stay hidden, away from the red numbers circled on the calendar, the ones that demand attention and insist I show up. Don't let them find me. Compromise, sacrifice, just be there until you aren't here anymore. I don't think I have anymore to give.

To dream to your idea of realistic, to see visions only you can see and execute. If I leaped, you’d say I jumped the wrong way.

You tell me to dream within your limits, to shape my vision to fit your reality. But it’s mine because I see it clearly. I believe in it, even if you can’t. Don’t look at me with doubt; I need you to trust in what I’m trying to create. If you choose me, take me fully, with all my flaws and hopes. Or is there some easier way for me to fade away quietly? To be here, but not really?

Comments

  1. everything you write, I relate to it, it's like we both have the same day all the time, Great work once again

    ReplyDelete

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...

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.

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.