Walking On...

being a bad person is tiring. i cannot imagine the effort needed to be good.

The sleeper, dreamless, rests. Still, undisturbed, yet undeniably present, their figure parts the morning-dewed grass and imprints its shape atop a bed of soil. They are foreign. At once with the wind, unthinking lungs take in the morning air, bracing against its chill. Sunlight breaks the silent morning blue, leaking through a shroud of leaves. Morning will not wake the sleeper, who rests, dreamless and wishing to dream again.

Sometimes I fear that I will die leaving nothing in my wake. Fear that I will pass having been neither blight nor boon, no marks on the world but shadows left in cracked places, surfaces marred by inadequacy and bitterness. Less than a name carved in stone, what I am will be remembered as the dust on its surface, washed by waves or carried by wind until nothing remains but canvas, ready for the hand of another. That fear grasps me, threatening to keep the air at bay and the words locked in, a scornful warden of my own making. What hubris, then, imagining that I deserve any less. More than fear that I will die leaving nothing is the fear that I cannot leave anything of worth even if I try.

Happy birthday! Hope you're well and that your days are full of kindness and whimsy. I hope you're moving without burden, that your words are without constraint, and that your actions are without hesitation. I hope you feel loved and safe and that you feel that there isn't anything beyond your reach, should you find the drive to seek it. I hope you feel warmth, today, and every day ahead. And I hope I never cross your mind.

I have not lived very much these past years. A convenient excuse has borne fruit unripe, and as a novice with unstayed hand, I have reaped a sour sown fate. What I am has died slowly, malnourished and unsunned. Trodden paths now lay sullied by a thick veneer of dust, a layer of decay unswept by stagnant air. Once vibrant color gives way to monochrome; a rusted chime, now voiceless. Leaves and petals torn from branch and stem by time and tumult trace portraits of bygone beauty. What was is no longer. But even unwanted, things grow anew, as weeds in an untended garden.

What a fucked up day.

Happy New Year, y'all!

Also, I don't know what matters to me. And I fear introspection. Few things terrify more than the thought of proving myself right for doubting, finding that there truly was nothing of worth beneath the rubble.

Part of me really wants to make things. I don't know where or how to direct that energy. I fear I will die having done nothing.

Self doubt is a funny thing. I'm not sure when it happened, but I know it can't have been as simple as flipping a switch - surely, the change must have been gradual - yet it feels so sudden, that at some point I became unable to imagine myself succeeding at anything at all.

I have a hard time letting go of things. I have a hard time picking up new things. So I sit, juggling the same old thoughts, emotions, habits, likes, and dislikes - a snake forever eating its own tail. It's comfortable. But on occasion, my eyes wander to the ground, and I look to see that my trail is little more than a circle in the tall grass. How far does this forest go, I wonder; will I ever see the rest?

Sleep has been weird, lately. A certain measure of anxiety. A need to let out something that is uncertain. Is there nothing? Is there too much? Am I only hesitant to act because of the tension? I don’t know. It’s been very heavy.

Somethin’ hits reaaaaal different about that state of consciousness where you’ve been up so long that you start having mood swings. I’ve gone from raucous laughter to tears to just kinda floating, all within the past, like, 5 minutes.

One day I will not be a ball of fear and anxiety.