butter, bread, and breakdowns

       The longing to be seen with depth, spoken to with depth, touched and embraced with depth, and understood with depth. And, by the same token, to view the morning sunlight and the indefatigable passing of time with depth; to look at my reddish, stinging wrists and ask what kind of beauty could be found in a dozen cuts; to speak in a cheerful tongue that doesn’t bleed; to have the ability to move with bouncy, unafraid feet. With teary eyes closed, I imagined a life in which I do not hurt so terribly; where I had petals in bloom and not a stadium of thorns; where I had it in me to talk without sobbing; where I was unabashed and courageous enough to look at someone in the eye and tell them how I feel, what I think; to make an auspicious attempt to explain why it’s so dark everywhere I go even if all the lights are on.  It’s maddening how no words are ever sufficient to cover my pain. In all ways, I am in great suffering, but I could not tell you why exact...

There’s a kind of exhaustion that any temporary rest or sleep or pause can’t eradicate. It cripples you from head to toe; extinguishes the teensy amount of energy you have left; it takes away your ability to think and speak and move the way “normal” people do. It’s the kind of exhaustion that grows prolific, hefty branches of depression, helplessness, frustration, and melancholy–their stabbing weight hammered upon you. I don’t know how to tell everyone how painfully tired I am. What do you do when no words are enough to express how you feel? Where do you run when you’ve already reached the very edge of the world? Or, what do you do when you feel like the entire universe has left you alone, and yet, expectations still barrage you?  There are millions of words. We can form a supernumerary of oceans with them. To think of the right words is almost always overwhelming. I have been sitting here wondering why among the multifarious number of mixed letters out there, I couldn’t...

They say alcohol makes you forget. On the other hand, some researchers have studied how alcohol actually helps prime a specific part of our brain that props up our ability to learn and remember things. Interesting contradictory points, huh? Either way, sweetie, here’s the takeaway from another fecund in misery, totally unwished-for day; hey, cut yourself some gentle slack, and don’t get wasted when it’s Monday, the beginning of yet another bustling, loud week the next day.  I wish some words could be heard even if they’re just written. Like, I wish if I write the word ‘sigh’ right now, you could register how deep and despondent it was in your ears. There are days when speaking seems as if it’s an incredible superpower that I cannot grasp. If my voice is a place, it would be on another planet I wouldn’t get to before my existence here on Earth vanishes. If it’s a person I would take pleasure in being friends with, they would be that kind of human being that you’ve always a...