Today I’m dwelling on the slow & consistent decay of things. I loathe changes. Sadly, they are the cost we pay for growing old.
Sometimes, I feel the slow, seismic shift in time’s axis. I feel it twitch and move just a little. Cruel time licks its fingers & flips another page of life, the world shudders & goes still for a second, then moves on like it is supposed to. Your parents become a memory, friends see other occasionally, priorities change. This heart of yours that won’t stop hurting right now, learns to look away & focus on things which, at that moment, become more important.
So the tiniest speck of change makes me fold my hands in prayer to a God I don’t believe in, ‘please, please make it stop. just for a while’
Please look at people in the eyes and tell them they’re doing well. Squish their face with your hands & say they’re doing their best, and you’re proud of them as they should be of themselves. Sometimes it only takes it hearing it from someone else’s lips to make someone believe in themselves.
I love Emily Dickinson a lot. Not because of her poems, though that plays its part in her admiration, but I discovered something about her disposition that made me feel understood. And it goes like this:
Her choice to let her work get published and be available to the world, but her decision to never accept any public celebration, recognition of herself is something I resonate with strongly.
Anytime I do something mildly well, I wish to be admired and appreciated. I should like people to know I did something well.
But I do not necessarily like being celebrated. I should like to be acknowledged silently, but I don’t like being raised and upheld for worship.
Acknowledged, but not celebrated.
I got to know about this idea called Room 19. It is like a fictional (or at times tangible) room where your heart turns to, when it needs to get away from the world. For some it might be a corner of the house they can stay by themselves in, for some it’s inside their mind.
When I enter my room 19, I don’t speak to anyone for days. And my heart and mind are at unrest, strained from the burden of never being able to make any sense of it. Joy never enters that room. It can’t, it isn’t supposed to.
Some knock on their room 19 & let themselves in occasionally,
Aome carry it with themselves wherever they go.
During my childhood, I was always surrounded by people, my tangible needs were sufficiently met, i was safe & sound.
but in my head, I grew up alone.
I received a book in my mail box once, a gift from someone I once parted ways with.
The title of the book said, ‘Maybe You Should Talk to Someone’
Something squirmed inside. I held the heavy hardcover in my hands.
This is how I will always be looked at, from the outside. Someone who needs fixing. Someone not quite okay.
This is how I would be thought of.
Maybe, I’ve locked myself up in my room 19. I don’t go there occasionally, I live in it. Everybody in my life is outside that door. And it is going to be that way.
A note: Time flies too fast to stifle words.
It is not enough to just feel them, they must be spoken aloud. words must reach another person’s heart, so they can stay there. Whether they live there or don’t, is not up to you.