Ebb and Flow

Sometimes I find myself in a closed room sipping on sugar cubes of my past. I keep taking from the same bowl, these perfect little fresh six sided sweets.
I feel the sides, I take the angles and I let dissolve and I let absorb.
Again
and again.

Like with too much of anything, my insides will begin to cringe and unfold their exasperation and disapproval.

Every once in awhile, I step inside this place where I roll in the mud of my past. I let myself feel awful for my decisions. I pull in blame and frustration and I coat the whole room in these colours. I am angry and I am determined. I can’t do anything but eat the sweets that turn so sour, to crawl into cave where all I do is feel bad and wonder how I could have messed up so terribly.

Deep down I know. I truly do know. I had to do my past the way that I did so that I could reach where I have. I do align myself with motivation and self awareness, help and understanding, yet these spaces of time come to me strong every so often. I don’t remember ever really pushing them away, but at least now I know that I have the ability to climb out. That in another day or four, I’ll be positive and upbeat again.
I’ll soak in my sweet sweet truth of my life; everything from my perspective to the actual. I’ll make myself sick with consumption of my frustration and feeling of stuck.
When I’m done doing that, I’ll lay in sun and let myself soak that. I’ll let myself be sick on content and the ever always, ebb and flow of life.

 

 

Baggage

I’m a decade behind in mental documents, the kind that breeches all codes of present so vehemently it’s often mistaken as the actual.

The moments we don’t remember, but that are so deep in our corners and layered with patchwork and quick but organized fixes, we do not realize they exist.

But they do and we take them into everything that we do.

And until we let them surface- or recognize when they do- and feel them out and make the decision to let them go,
they will be our baggage.

Time in Truth

Your clock turns my times into believable spells of intuition. The way your time collapses onto my shoulder every few months doesn’t confuse me anymore. Your hands are moved by love, your seconds spew bullets of man made hope and the days you long for are the ones that would tick to the beat of my belly. But oh great one; the forever of your time can’t be connected with mine because your fear of our past is the Wall of Prevention.

Merge of All

The colours blurred their concerns, tucking possibilities under their layers. Coatings of secure tapped systematically into wardrobes of bravery and the space knew it was ready to be willing. 

Frenzied globes in excitement broke open in glee and all parts of all worlds in every crevice, leaked beautifully. Upon contact courage sprang to feet, possibilities uncovered sunk it’s teeth into colour and the merge of all things was clear, right, and the only.