I cannot remember when I revoked my own permission to exist poetically: when did I decide I had to stuff my being into a linear narrative; that it was not important to find meaning and beauty in little details? (Only to take this meaning and beauty for granted as I lost touch with what mattered most to me)
When I stigmatized my own experiences, did I anticipate the extent to which my future self would be tormented by discomfort and unknowing? Why is this happening to me, after all? Of what consequence is sitting in a corner seat on an orange line train car flecked with decay for thirty minutes every Friday at the cusp of afternoon to pay a stranger to listen to me talk about everything I wouldn't have to talk about if I just took the time to sit and write it all down?
It will all be okay with some bright lipstick and lung-deflating hugs and takeout burritos, not necessarily in that order and omitting consideration of cold sores brought on by intrusive thoughts and 12-page-papers; uncomfortable attempts at amity and train schedules that don't line up with our plans; frosty first-of-December fingertips and stolen debit card numbers.
I think I'm getting there, slowly, one burst of realization at a time. Moving at my own pace even if it means befriending my cats like they're people and staying in most Friday nights to lay in bed listening to jazz.
No comments:
Post a Comment