If I write right now, it’s likely to be, some unsurprisingly ,unusually, unnecessary commiserational piece.
No, commiserational is not a word, but I have grown tired of simply commiserating and long for something more. Now I must craft and invent words to describe the feeling. The feeling of wet, soaking rain, dampening even more your sneakers with clean socks. With the cuffs of your pants sagging around your ankles from trudging through puddles. When you know you should have stayed home. All because you forgot your umbrella. And woke up five minutes late.
I wish my words could devise something that will actually change the way things are. I’ve tried dreaming, putting myself into the shoes of “future me”. Being positive. Smiling at myself in the mirror in the morning. Self-hypnosis at night. The law of attraction has attracted the most amazing thing to me, but my prayers have bogged me down with things I did not mean to wish for. And at the same time, they are contradicting each other, simultaneously.
I have so much to be deeply thankful for. But still, every day is a fight for my life. A fight to stay above my own dark mind and cynical feelings. Where I once had direction, I now am lost. My GPS is broken and I don’t even trust the one I always used to have to fix it anymore.
I only have one thing. And that one thing is plenty for me. But I wish everything else would stop existing. So I could just dance away my days with the one thing, and forget the rest.
The rest do not love me. Like you do.
Can I tell you a million things? A million broken pieces? A million tales? Will you listen?
This is what happens if I were to write right now. Thank goodness I can’t write. I can’t think. I can’t dream. I can’t cry, can’t laugh. My face is a deafening monotone. Like every day. As it passes.
“What’s that you said? You would like another coffee? Coconut milk? No problem, sir, “Order in!”