art of dissecting emotions. to be aware of precisely what you feel. to also feel too much.
You feel despair all the time. It has latched on to you. You don’t feel like yourself if you’re not in despair. Just realised what a scary statement this is.
At peace when it’s solitary. Not happy, just not in angst. Not jittery. Not afraid. At least for a while. You’re okay. There is no unspoken and unaddressed pressure of saying or not saying the right things.
Since Joy is now too vague a state to achieve, you’re content with solitude. You’re content with plastic chairs on empty balconies with nowhere to prop your feet comfortably.
But at least the sky is pretty.
I’m trying to condense the giant ocean of my dreams into tiny drops. That way, maybe they won’t try to drown me.
You’re afraid of your ability to not speak for days and still be okay.
You’re also tired of putting on a show.
‘Oh you’re so brave. Here take another gauntlet.’
I’m not brave.
The glass building and its nauseatingly proud residents astound you. They wake up everyday and work like machines, their insides content with bright screens and fancy gadgets, filling sheets with numbers & pretending they’ve cracked the meaning of life.
Disdaining anything that doesn’t promise a promotion, money or an approving, insincere nod from the boss.
You want to shake them out of this hypnosis. But alas. You’re often shrugged off as a kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.
Do you though, good sir/madam who doesn’t know who Fitzgerald is?
But they say knowing Fitzgerald won’t take you anywhere. If anywhere is where these fancy people go, I surely do not wish to accompany.
You’ve been thrust with a sapphire stone claiming to fix your faulty planets. The planets are not at fault, ma’am, it’s I. The stone, now encased in shiny silver sits on your lean fingers, glinting twilight blue (pretty). Your hands are still lean and pale, even though your body now isn’t.
You’re unable to polish and maintain your only physical proof of juvenescence.