This Morning I Wept, But It Was No Different Than How I Have Wept All Year.

I refuse to let the deprivations of this world squash me. When memory jolts me awake with fresh incisions made by painful perceptions I sensitively hold myself the way I wish I was held, defend and protect myself against the erosion of the mind.

The acid in this life are acids within me, organs slightly zombiefied. Some of my limbs are dead, and I have hid it the way you hide yours, masked it, pushed through it, lumbered with it. The temporary sepsis of ugly seasons, depressions.

True love starts as embarrassing work. But it is safe. It is a relief to have language to understand your wounds but even more to have a simplified answer. Let’s not overcomplicate the answer or the method. It shows you some of the best parts of yourself. And I must be an amazing person if I held anyone’s hand the way I hold my own in this moment. 

I write to immortalise moments of soundness. Lest we forget. Lest we become unsound, and render our pain permanent – even worse – purposeless.

They are always right after all. Reliving your pain will always remain an opportunity to save yourself. Remove your own swords, moment to moment, or make them gold. You have the choice. What can you really do with it? Other than only react?

Sometimes I write. Maybe later I will dance. 

“The mind is it’s own place an in itself can make a heaven of hell or a hell or heaven.”