I rarely manage to do things when I know I have to. I wait it out just a little bit longer. It’s as if I need to see just how far I can push the limits on this one. I have this built-in glitch where I just can’t seem to adhere to time frames.
In reality, I just work in extremes until I manage to find a healthy balance. The extreme I tried on for the first chunk of my life was putting everyone miles ahead of myself. I would drop anything, everything, to accommodate the timelines of everyone around me, to help meet their needs. I’m tired of dropping things I’d rather hold on to. I’m tired of leaving where I want to be just to be where someone says I’m needed. I’m leaning towards the other extreme now, giving myself as much time as I need to be sure before agreeing and then a little more beyond that.
I was so sure I wasn’t going to write today. I promised myself I would for the sake of consistency but when it came down to sit down and write, I simply felt empty, full of nothing but resistance. I gave in to my procrastination. I found myself on youtube and clicked on the video I felt the most drawn to.
The reality is that sometimes the resistance is just in the forcing. Sometimes procrastination turns into inspiration. Almost always, play and amusement bring back my willingness to follow commitments.
Sick Strangers
I’m sitting here, crying, over how a person I’ve never met is sick.
I’ve never met them but they’ve touched me and that’s enough for me to love them.
And I don’t mean that they’re sick in the way that consumes minds rather than bodies.
I don’t mean that they touched me the way the boy that cornered me in the study room did.
Never have a been left feeling dirty at their hands,
no matter how many times I’ve been reduced to nothing by their words.
I don’t think they even know that their mostly forced, grief-laced smile made the sun shine through my window a little bright, warmed my skin, gave me goosebumps.
You see the corner of my room is filled with dead flowers that I only started collecting when I learned that I could love myself.
Every time I look over and see them, I think of the poem I took with me to the hospital when I finally admitted that I couldn’t keep pushing through this life alone, in my head.
I know they didn’t write those words for me, or about me, but the way my skin tingled made me sure for just a moment that they did.
I listened to that poem for weeks, read it every day until I could recite the words by heart.
I can’t imagine a world where they’re not writing more poems.
I’m sitting here, crying, over a person I’ve never met because the thought of someone so transparent not existing anymore makes me sick.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 