I once imagined leaving this life would be
a deep sigh,
a plop on the couch after a long day,
a warm fire and fluffy blanket on a chilly night
after having a sunset dance along the ridges of your
pink and purple feet for hours—
a relief.
That’s what it meant to be clinically depressed then.
Not taking life for granted
rather the want to remove the thorn from your eyeball
or having all of your limbs broken
while alone in a Russian ice cave.
It is hurting and helplessness and
not even loving others or being loved
alone
could fix it.
Not even love.
Maybe I caused my daughter’s illness.
Had to learn to live with despair
because I’m supposed to live.
Couldn’t march out now because 1. I’m a coward and
2. I couldn’t leave her behind—I couldn’t cause her to hurt any more.
Yet here I am, a burr completely immersed
in my cornea and I laugh. I laugh at my pain,
laugh at the world’s pain,
trying on calmness and mindfulness and centeredness and openness and honesty
in a three-way mirror under fluorescent lights.
I take steps
back then I crawl
back out.
Each time harder. At first, a broken fingernail, now I’ve lost my fingertips and a few teeth.
I’m worrisome and wonder if I’ll have enough body left to pull me
back up.
These cycles are too becoming of my character.
When will I stay afloat for good?
When I’ve lost my jaw?
When it’s too late?
How arrogant to think someone else’s pain,
someone I love more than myself,
would be caused by the guilt of not enough suffering.
And how low I must think of myself to assume the responsibility.
O existence, you strange paradox.
O loneliness and your absurdity.
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| IG: @daydreamifications |
