Tears and words trapped inside.
Robotically moving forward, but I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere.
Pushing others away.
The ones who need me most.
Empty places, full places.
Nothing feels right.
Except some things.
I don’t know what this even is. Where this comes from, or where it’s taking me.
Writing ought to come naturally.
I slam the door on the struggle, and force it to be quiet.
I don’t want it right now.
But, I need it.
I want to be happy.
I don’t want to share this.
Nothing makes sense to me.
Except birth and death.
Living. Moving. Waking. Sleeping. Walking. Striving. Schooling. Eating. Teaching.
Not writing. Not playing. Not connecting. Not doing. Not planning.
I confuse myself.
I know there is hope. I know “better.”
This just is what it is.
Whatever that may be.
This is just a brain dump.
Grace & Peace,