To be good at things help to remind that one is not worthless, and even if not, not good at things, there are things to be done. The doing is good enough.
Days are difficult to wake up when aches greet in the morning from doing nothing at all. Just a looming.
Gratefulness lives in the sun yet it is still too hot to stare into and pauses on the face angry for the lack of looking. It is hot, and cold from the door. Icy wind.
Meaning is found when eyes wander onto anything, as the heart searches for purpose to; a reason. Any sign that says “Everything Will Be Ok”. And yes, it will. Still, not really.
Thoughts jab and protrude into the jaw, intrusive and angered. Biting at the self. Tense.
Happiness is found when not looking, an illusive flutter. Some deep laughter, safety and calm.
Hopeful that perhaps something will happen, in and for work done, efforts made, love given, care taken (of); that what is sown will bloom, reaping. Flowers and seeds are easy to see. When there is no tangible evidence of planting these acts. Waterless, no soil, muddy on the hands. Only hoping, and going to sleep.
Disappointment smiles coyly, to say a sorry ‘sorry’ once more. The bathroom holds a face in this way. It comes from there and leaks like the tap. Self let down, let down by the self in others.
Mirrors show nothing but the image. The real glass is human.
Wondering comes about.
Decidedly, knowing that the end is not near, contemplations to disappear into forever sleep sits on the stiff, uplifted shoulders.
It is not that word, like ideations or burdensome being, thinking to rid the world of one breath out of some billions. Rather, an exhaustion and weary eyed soul, to close to this sight, this place, the places, these eyes and this heart. A soul floats into a new past. Not this one, as it leaves the body tight and uneasy.
It is a trying task; the knowing that an ultimate goal is to heal from grief and pain caused by seemingly small happenings and occurrences with adults and others. Like, people. Heavy words sit and crystallise in the chest, since size one school shoes too big.
A trying task. That is to say one is actively and always doing this lifting of ancestral weights, little abuses by the tongue and mind. A body.
Lessons in loneliness have promised to keep sheltered and away. Sentences are swallowable and tasty, when clever. So silence simmers. That is what is taught: to keep: stealers steal.
The Why question is much simpler, as there is no reason. Specific instances of losing hope and sinking downwards are not useful. It is empty of and used, tired and forgetting, a kind of forgiveness. Events are routed in order to destine. That does not allow for acceptance, even then. Thankfulness may be showered upon the executioners for placing a chair under hanging feet. The rope leaves a printed, threaded necklace, gone and too tight, staying. Ongoing consequences for taking breath. That is not allowed.
If answers are pouring in, asking pleads for proof that worthiness is worthy. That good is good. That purpose is on purpose, and so is the past. Otherwise, it is senseless to keep trying at this task.
Goodbye is not the option: there are ever seeds and ever flowers and wings that make for flight, even tiny and beating. Grass is wonderful. The sky is crisp and vast. Too, quiet. Not soundless. But has no hands to carry or hold.
People are not the sky. Not vast, not soundless. Hands that are rigid and unkind. That is not the option.