Smoke that curls and intertwines, melds around raindrops, reaches out like searching hands.
a slow build to crash, a silence that nulls
2 AM rhythm that fills me with both awe and terror, an expanse of unknown
I’ve gone and cut my hair short, started swimming lessons, and found my glasses again.
Here I go.
of cables that have long since strayed from purpose, rusted necklaces that have never made it to neck, field trip name tags tossed into drawer, other bits and things that have somehow crossed paths into one mass of ______.
I’ve been cleaning. Not the kind where Mom sees things lying around and tosses them into drawers, cleaning for the sake of blank spaces, of being clean. Mine has been frantic, moving things out, reordering, shifting. Clearing dust to make way for clarity. Searching. I’m looking for things that have been long lost or even recently. Because something is tugging at me, telling that they have been waiting to be found, and that in itself makes my heart restless.
In the past week, I’ve managed to lose two pairs of glasses, my current first, then my back-up fourth grade pair (desperation) soon after. It’s got a rather bitter taste of symbolism in it in a way. The sad truth is I need glasses to find glasses and so I’m on a bit of a blind chase.
I’m taking a bit of break from my whirlwind path of dust and coughs but I can say that while I’ve yet to find those lens, I’ve found things that I didn’t know were lost. I’ll keep searching for now, so back to the dust I go.
Grandpa’s finished unknotting the first mass and has gone on to the mess upstairs. Wrinkled hands make weaving motions but contrary to weaving it is. Unraveling.
the ocean folds out, uses its own special kind of Tide to remove stains of hurt, and rinses itself over and over (odd isn’t it, as though with every fold it makes is almost a means of renewal, undoing). folds its body like clothes, only to be caught up in a mismatched cycle of Laundry Day. a seagull flies a little too close to the water and is pulled under the waves. sifting, pushing, folding.
when the sun sinks down lower, peeping over the line between sky and water, the water shifts from rosy pinks to a lonely blue. it’s during this time that these waters seem the most lonely. seagulls peer down from their makeshift kingdom on a rock, whether out of sympathy for the tearful waters or for their fallen friend. the folds reach farther into the earth, in efforts to find a hand, any hand, to hold onto. indigo and orange flowers sit high. the moon reaches out, but fingertips never touch.
pure blue, and lonely blue.
a visual letter
really, I mean it. Because to say I’m “mad” is to condense the million of other feelings into one three letter word.
A bittersweet mix of sadness, disappointment, broken-heartedness.
A conflicting, pushing-and-pulling mass of resentment, loyalty to old friendships, lessons on forgiveness to tales of revenge.
A held breath of apologies, tears, pride, kind words, angry words, the sad, sad ones.
Tidal waves, lapping and taunting, confusion.
I’m not mad, no, no.
But I can say that I’m unhappy, can’t I? So let me have this moment.
tipping into 3 am thoughts (it’s been a while) I realize now that the kindest thing to do was to answer with complete honesty at the time–simplicity. To say that “it was for your own good,” things like “it’s for you to grow” and on and on, all of those were just bandaids to make me feel better about hurting you–a pitch at playing tragic hero almost.
To put it simply, things would have gone a lot smoother had I just said what I genuinely believed and knew (but the taught part that said be kind–in a stereotypical way–was stronger than true belief and replaced emotion) was
“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
Simple as that. Blatant maybe, but less cruel. Truth.
loose emotions are no excuse to lash out