and it all might come unraveled

city streets

somewhere, footsteps plod along a city sidewalk. windows are lit behind edges of curtains and ears of dogs and awkwardly high bar stools adorned with yellowed, wilted philodendrons. at this hour, everyone wears sweatpants and unlaced tennis shoes and cover their heads with hoods and hats and headphones as they stand in awnings and on porch steps in the silence of night as they take drag after drag after drag of a cigarette. they say you can quit if you want to. but we don’t want to.

inside our minds, the world is not so quiet. the distant howling of an ambulance fails in comparison to the wretched little monsters lurking in our subconscious. they yell and scream. they hint and whisper. they burn and they freeze. they wind up and break down. you are not good enough they say why did you do that? our thoughts are runaway wild-west horse carriages and sometimes the monsters rein us in, halting us abruptly only to remind us you will never be as good as he is. what’s the fucking point? and then the carriage lurches forward and resumes its crazy speed and our minds spin and twirl like wheels and the monsters line up on the sidelines of the gladiator stadium screaming YES! NO! WHY?! NEVER! YOU CAN! YOU NEVER WILL!  and then silence.

if you find a monster in your closet, you’ll look for him every single night until the day you die. if the monster lives in your head he cannot leave. even in moments of stillness you scan and search and seek for the evil you know is lurking somewhere. true sleep is a figment.

sometimes, we forget our monsters and feel happiness flowing through us like rain.

we cherish those moments. we forget the worry and forget the fear and the pain and the pain and the pain and the pain. toothy smiles and hair tosses and laughter and YES! complete weightlessness. levity. horizons filled with sunsets and sunrises and skies with stars and the arms of blue-eyed men and hazel-eyed girls. these moments.

but the mind turns. the reins clenched once again by ragged claws as we are pulled into blackness. thrown out onto city sidewalks to ignore strangers and take drag after drag of a cigarette. to look down at our feel and ignore the heavens. to bow in shame. to regret everything. to feel sadness in our bones for having lost nothing, and having lost everything.

the cyclical nature of psychological screaming can vary second to second or month to month. but tread safely – there are straights and narrows and winding roads that never end. we often dream of a change. we swallow small, colorful things every night and every morning to derail our carriage and cage our monsters. but our minds are not composed of steel or iron or brick. they are soft, a maze of delicate muslin pulsing slowly in the breeze of consciousness. they are fleeting. delicate. fragile. and someday,  they all might come unraveled.





growing up is hard. growing up means you must become your own anchor, your own guiding force. you must discover on your own what makes you happy, what brings you down into the pit of despair.

i don’t handle emotions well. extremity is the basis of my day to day, fluctuating from high highs and low lows. finding a middle ground has been inextricably difficult.

i often think back to my childhood. a time when i don’t worry about the trivial day to day. a time when playing in a sprinkler brought pure joy, and the thoughts of how my body looked, or the words i spoke meant little or nothing to me. naive is the wrong word. freedom is.

searching to find the mentality of my former, confident, happy self is a daunting task. thoughts flash through my head like a strobe light, and i simply cannot seem to quiet the noise, the chaos, the complete lack of internal self awareness.

we often form boundaries from other people, from distressing or uncomfortable situations. but how do we find the wherewithal to form boundaries within our own minds? how do we enjoy the present moment without our minds wandering to the future, or the past, wrecking our systems with anxiety and doubt. future-tripping, self-doubt, stories. we all believe the stories we spin into our psyche – an intrinsically meshed brain of truth and misconceptions.

my peers tell me not to believe what you think. a thought is a thought. it will pass, if you can grasp it internally, recognize it, and let it go, send it back up to the sky, reminded raindrops from somewhere far above us.

sometimes i look at the stars. i see how little i am in this universe, the cosmos, the worlds we have yet to discover. trusting the process of life is difficult, but i can only ask myself to do what i can, to do my best with the tools i have been given. i am not perfect. i am where i am supposed to be. this notion, i seldom trust, but know it to be true.

letting go.

expectation is the thief of joy. open mindedness is essential. say yes more than you say no. you are enough, just as you are. and there is infinite beauty in that.