I am trying to wave my pens over the chaos going on inside my head. I am praying that the invisible ink beneath the tap of my finger on a keyboard will cleanse my words enough to bodly explain my agony. My head hurts.
This season too shall pass.
It is what I am telling myself every time the thought of giving up crosses my unsettled mind. I am reminding myself not to hold myself accountable over anything I have zero control over. There's something about understanding that that leaves one feeling a little more free. Knowing that one is enough and their best is everything required.
This season too shall pass.
Death won't be so fresh on my mind. The quiet storm brewing behind the scenes would wind itself up and dissolve into a cool breeze. Emotions would go back to being organised chaos. Something would warm my numb self. Tears would dry up. This plastic grin would fold itself up in protest of being used.
This season too shall pass.
My redeveloping pride is carrying a cross it shouldn't. I can feel my spiritual knees ready to give in to this consuming self loathing god sneaking her way to the throne. Courage has left me stranded at some crossroads with unreliable glitching road signs.
This season too shall pass.
The light I had fearfully allowed in has been consumed by the reigning dark and the resurrected ghosts. Everything is a fight within itself and with myself. I can no longer hear the wind or her reassuring whispers. The birds here are mournfully singing too. I wonder who switched off the moon and shielded the sun from me.
This season too shall pass.
Old patterns are knocking on hell's gates. Stagnation is creeping back in my creative juices. Change can be so uncomfortable. Reality can be so cruel at times. How does one flee from one's thoughts? How do I free myself from the waiting depression?
This season too shall pass.
The universe shall extend kindness onto my spirit and reveal the whys. Probably if I cry myself to sleep some more. Or when I will finally be able to find sleep with the lights out again. But for now I am a slave to what's coming. I can feel myself giving in to the cruelty of grief.
This season too shall pass.
My ancestors might be rejoicing of their growth in numbers but my heart is slowly eroding away with their every intake. Why do I feel so lost? My feet have been guided by a wise old tongue. It now lies in the East side of his ancestorial wet land in a cold grave.
I wonder when this season will pass though.
It was raining when I took this.