Sifted through stacks
of glossy time stamped building
blocks, shifted till a truth
(of sorts) emerges, gathered
fabric of decades (bunched in
places, pinned close to preserve),
a sweet sucker punch
lyric (when will I
realize), reams of something
precious, a
neon proclamation:
we are always open;
it waits for you.
What do your memories make possible?
What happens when you choose to face the past?
What do you want to hold onto?
This one’s got even more Easter eggs and inside references than two weeks ago, and I’d apologize except that sitting in this part of my past feels good and the pain I’m experiencing isn’t just about the loss… it’s about the fact that I’ve wasted so much time, expended so much energy on the wrong things.
It’s most universal, utterly banal, me-and-everyone-else arrival point ever, and also earth-shattering, exquisitely personal, inside-outing.
I’m still fragile. Still putting my pieces back together. They fall apart so easily; if I can go 24 hours without melting down, it’s a win. (Unabashed, except the shame is actually very fucking real: I’m a forty-something toddler and the only difference is self-awareness, a full-time job, and maybe a few clothing sizes right now.) Solid food is a victory as well (not for lack of trying… dreaming of large quantities of pretty much every rich, luscious treat in the known universe). My body is only one baby step back from fight, fly, freeze. Nerve pain is still sizzling.
It seems that so many of my captions come back to this closet-sorting, this season-of-my-life cleanout. We’re all trying to piece together the past. We’re all trying to line up the future. I want to be suspended in time and space for just a bit, sit in the vertigo, stare up through the eye of the hurricane, see where the hammock settles.
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