For the better or for the worst, who does not optimistically assume better of themselves than is realistic?
That’s what you made me.
A year has already passed, and I only feel closer to you,
only greater tenderness, Dear.
Soon, I say.
so until then,
Productivity is a choice.
I will try to love you at your darkest.
The battle for balance rages on. Lately, the majestic days barge in. They declare that the moment must be lived in, only to then promptly leave in a flourish. But not before they carelessly trample my hesitant, cautious optimism into a pulp.
to have it greet me everyday when I wake.
Frustration: when sincerity tastes fake upon leaving my mouth.
I am incessantly tormented by a gnawing sense that I have lost some infinite thing. Some part of myself that I had placed into cradling transient dreams. Some part of reality that I had willingly ignored with resolute cheerfulness.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
It would whisper sweet nothings into my ears and then, like always, slip away softly. I swear that you are cousin to the quiet restlessness that I have forever tenderly carried around with me in my back pocket. So why? So why leave me behind, alone with Palpable Emptiness? How base. How despicable! How… sad, for I promise you that in my dreams turned nightmares, I grieve for your absence. Sweet, twisted, paralyzing insomnia — where goes thee? When comes thee? When goes thee?
These rare moments of complete awareness and crisp clarity only add to this insidious numbness. The intellectual dullness that follows the noise is always the worst. I am too often gripped with crippling horror and yet I continually fail to understand why. It is all sad, really.
Yes, it is sad indeed.
I feel my bones ache.