Hey.

You spoke no word to me today, but the glance you gave me was like a candle in the dark.

I'm so sick of working on myself.

Yes. I know, I know. 

I know that self-work never stops, and that it's a lifelong process.

I know that traumas are to be worked on. That everyone has trauma.

But I'm so tired, so, so tired. I want to be a person. I want to live. I don't want to be constantly watching myself. I don't want to be constantly fixing myself. I'm not broken, for God's sake. I'm wounded yes, but does that make me unworthy of simply being?

Does that make me undeserving of some peace? Of rest? Of fucking around a little because I'm just so desperate for a bit of a breather when all I do is grind down the healing route. Hell I'm starting to feel this is wounding me even more. All this pathologization, psychologization, psychobabble, pathology babble that may or may not exist. I'm so sick of it. I haven't been to therapy in more than a month.

Because I'm so sick of it all. I don't want to die but the idea of doing more of this makes me want to kill myself. Because I will never get there. I know it. Nobody ever succeeds at it because there is nothing we can do to be perfect. It's taking all the joy I have "worked for". You're at a better place than a few years ago? Well tough luck bud, you gotta work more.

It's not that I don't want to get better.
I just cry for some respite.
I cry to be understood for a bit.
To be allowed to feel.
To be allowed to cry, and to overthink, nevermind that you fucking hate it, and to be allowed to just be my messy self for a little while because I want to vomit at all the therapy speak I hear.

From my ex.
From the internet.
From everyone.
From my colleagues.
From whoever the fuck has invented this shit.
From the one my heart is set on, herself. Yeah.

Someone drowning in the waters of the poverty-stricken South Pacific is drowning just as much as someone who is drowning in richer Europe.

You have your upbringing and what you've been through, my warrior. But pain is pain. And while my body isn't letting me down like yours is, it's my heart and mind that are.

It's in moments like this I just think of pulling the plug on myself. Because no matter how much you do, you're never good enough. You always have to "fix" yourself. You always have to "work on yourself". And whatnot.

I don't even want to live if life is just an endless grind like that.

Is it a crime that I want to rest for once?
To be out of this therapy/healing/self-improvement/WHATEVER THE FUCK grind for a hot minute?

So much BS on the internet

No, for real. So much bullshit. Everything that comes up is the same opinion. Or mostly. If I have another thought and want to find out if someone is thinking like me I can hardly find anything worthwhile. It feels lonely, so I bring it up to ChatGPT. But at the same time is it any healthy to overuse that chatbot? It's just a bot after all, and it only mirrors you, though at times it has told me stuff I didn't want to hear. It probably senses where I have doubts and brings it up.

But oh Lord. I can't even read Reddit anymore. I can't watch the gram anymore. Where are those days when things were actually interesting on the internet? Not the endlessly repeated takes?

I can't even talk about most things I have on my mind with people. How else am I going to find connection...

Her

It's not something I want to scream on the rooftops, or sing loudly about.
It's not something that I would bow to, or want to bless for ten thousand years.
It's something else, entirely.

It's in her accent, and how those R's are sweetly trilled. How it seems to slip out more when she's excited, or when we have been talking lately. Her eyes, those black eyes. 

The way she smiles at me from afar because she has spotted me half-hidden in a crowd. 

The way her hands move. Her tattoos. Those beautiful tattoos I fucking swear I'm obsessed with them. 

Her arms. Her massiveness. She isn't fat, nor overly muscular, but compared to tiny me, she is so big.

Big and beautiful. It's in the way I notice that she has tiny braids accompanying her usual bun. 

It's in the bracelets around her arms, it's in the rings on both ring fingers. 

It's in her love of silver, and in the way her second given name is whispered and strangely echoes to my persona's name. 

In the way her first name, innocuous as can be, stands out to me because all people I knew with that name were bitches, but this one... this one's flowers are taking over my heart like vines, little by little, and there's no way I will escape it. I don't want to, in fact. Let those beautiful flowers embrace me.

It's in the way she walks, it's in the way she talks. It's in the way she holds space for me at lunch, has done so twice. The second time I sat across from her but I prefer to be next to her, actually. It's in the way we lean when we speak. It's in her laughter when something has caught it. 

It's in her... It's all of her, I think. Her quietness. The fact I don't feel like I have to pretend to be a sociable person around her, and in the way she calls herself "not sociable" yet with me, she seems just as social as any other person. That's what chemistry does, I think. It makes you open up. Makes you bloom into a beautiful flower.

There needs to be flowers in life. Oh yes, there needs to be. Ylang-ylang and wisteria, I think. Or tiare tahiti. Perhaps two? 

It's something I would sing, softly, rather than scream or shout. It's something I would caress and kiss rather than hungrily bite into and squeeze like a lemon. It's a dance I would do slowly, in the dark, rather than a speedy waltz under a spotlight.

Come on and dance with me. Then let's go back to our caves together.

♥