Going, going
don't you get sick of it?
I was on the brink of it, something like happiness If I call it what it is, will I lose it?
There's something in the air. I think it's dread and I'm pretty sure it's encrusted in pollen. There is anger stewing beneath every interaction and the subtext keeps making me sneeze.
We are dusting off the last chills of winter and I’m tempted to hope the vibrancy will lift the whole world out of the trenches and into the light, paint it all over in flowers we’ll hand to our enemies and forget our grudges were ever there at all.
I want to be coming alive, as bright and absorbing of light as the green growth dancing outside my window. I am emerging from the doom I have wallowed in for the past five years and so fittingly it’s springtime and I want to embrace it! But somehow I can do nothing but try to stretch my arms out to try to hold it all until I collapse under the weight of it.
I have propelled myself out of the depths only to hand myself the impossible task of seeing, knowing, and feeling for it all. My therapist asked me to set it down. And so I’m standing here, frozen with my hands full and locked knees that I know will soon start shaking.
You’re overcorrecting, she told me. I’ve been granted a greater bandwidth and have thrown myself in too wholly, so much so that I’m making life nearly unlivable for myself. There is this mass of dissonance rising up from hibernation—the contradiction between caring for my own life and the lives of everyone else, and there is no right choice. How do I teach myself to deal in anything other than absolutes when it’s all I’ve ever known? Right or wrong, in heaven or hell, loved or abandoned, enough or not. To care for others is to deny myself care, and to care for myself is to desert all others. I should be able to do both but since it seems I can only pick one, why on earth would it be myself?
That’s how it goes, don’t you get sick of it?
I have written the same thing every Friday for months. There isn’t anything else to write about because we have no other choice but to go on. We are stuck in a loop like it’s a dream—we will make the same lunches and watch the news and too easily believe it is all out of our control, there is nothing we can do to stop it, there is no pinch sharp enough to wake us from the world so deceptive they’ve convinced us it isn’t worth trying to save.
That’s how it goes, it’s so repetitive
Where I’ve been glimpsing happiness
Daily: pink and white tulips, thai tea boba, Finch app to gameify my self care and do my silly little tasks for the sake of baby bird Pickle
Media: WHERE DO U GO ? by Dafna, Zinnias by Clairo (live at electric lady ofc)
Here’s hoping the vibrancy will lift us all out of this,
Helena
Find me elsewhere - Instagram: @fulfillled_ More words by me: https://fried--eggs.carrd.co/
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