Walking On...

I did break, I think. In fact, it’s been many years now since, and I’m still picking up the pieces. I don’t even know if there are pieces left to be found. It’s like a shattered glass. It pains me as a press the fragments into each other, hoping the shape returns to the image I have in my head of what was. Even the remnants are stained. And as the tower of shattered glass comes to shape, the desperation to repair is replaced with a fear - a fear that, in my incessant desire for normalcy, I might tip the balance of what I’ve managed to build so far, and have it all come crashing down again. So, now I sit, twiddling thumbs, unsure of whether or not I should even continue building.

I broke. And now I’m more afraid of fixing things than of being broken.

More than anything, I hope you’ve all been well.

If I explode from anxiety, that’s okay, too.

The worst thing about leaving my formative years without any semblance of self is that I’m now both unformed and unmalleable, stubbornly resistant to change in spite of having nothing to cling to.

Noise is a narrative.

I was in a hole, once.

The walls around me were high, high, high.

I climbed out.

Now, I’ve a larger space, not quite as deep. But the hole is still there, in the very center, and the walls surrounding me are not any less tall.

I’ve been walking for a while, now, circling that hole.

I wonder, a bit, every now and again: do I have it in me to climb further?

sophie531896273240810891:

having adhd is being both of these at the same time

Even in the midst of assuredness and growth and change, there is yearning still for what was. And that is only natural, I think, that some part still wants for something that once stood in the space that is now empty.

Be still, the heart - my own.

Be still.

I miss it.

Words were spoken, shared between chapped lips and hushed voices. Tomorrow comes, but the stillness of yours on mine hold me still, even so. The day will be the same without you. Sunset, sunrise - there used to be more in between, right?

Vivid, things were. But even faded, the pangs echo, and the chimes of laughter ring, light like whispers on the winds. A deeper blue then, but still blue; the essence is seen, even unbidden.

A tap, a tap, a tap - rhythmic, fingertips rolling as a symphony of steps across keys - depressing, clicking, rising, pausing. The cacophony of effective study, rapt attention, young ambition, yet rings in my ears. Would-be, the steps of success, treaded paths, and expectation remain unfulfilled. And yet, the soul cries: and yet.

Crumbling resolve gives way; the gilded surface shaved to bronze, revealed for its essence. Truth, or what it might seem to be. What is kind to the wanting? To be good. Or, don’t be. Live. A word, a concept, an idea, ungraspable in its simplicity - but is it something to be blamed? Is there fault? Their fault? Whose? Whose faults? Fault in the self, so apparent, the gilding remaining only to remind of the falsehood. Yet more - the meaning is more.

What is unbroken is good, yes? Without reparations, without needing of repair, unblemished: to be these things, must be good. But is being good so important?

I miss it, but I do not wish for it now.

Be good. Or don’t be.