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for everything that's lovely is / but a brief, dreamy, kind delight
(-W.B. Yeats)
Letter to a Me Who Does Not Exist (Anymore, Yet, or Otherwise)
I am sleepy, hazy, muddled, crampy, and bloodless. I feel like a child today. I wish for someone to take care of me.
I want my mother.
Sometimes I get so tired, but you know all about that. Sometimes I think I am an existentialist in mind and a dreamer at heart, painfully aware all too often that nothing matters and nothing lasts and unable to stop the terrible wanting, regardless.
I want life to be a story, and seeing it as such helps me get through the days. But it isn't a story, it's just living. And I am not so good at that. (Perhaps you, alternate version me, have fared better in your world. Perhaps you haven't built a dark tower of fears around you. Shall we trade for a day?)
And so here it goes again: I want, I want, I want. How nice it would be for something small and durable and forever unchanging to cling to. A pebble, perhaps. Lately I've been keeping my stuffed bunny and my baby blanket hidden away in the closet (must keep up this pretense of maturity, even if I'm not fooling anyone, certainly not you) but I find myself taking them out again at the oddest times, crawling into bed with my arms holding tight, breathing in the years and years.
Today I walked home and the sun was low and I could see the rays the way you can sometimes, the world gone soft and dim and orange, and I wanted more than anything to be able to cry. I never want that, but I thought, just once, how good it would feel, the release.
I'm premenstrual, it's true, and so very weary. I can smell myself, earthy and human and warm, and I wish you were here, I wish you were real. You'd be warm skin and blood and I wouldn't have to say a word. You could show me how to live this life I persist in wasting away. I think you could show me how to live.
(And I know if you know, it means I know too. But I've forgotten, it's too lost to me, it's buried too deeply in doubt and fear and distrust, and I don't know how to find it. I wouldn't even know where to look.)
Not now. Stay in your world. Don't come out. I will be all right on my own. I can feel you, almost, on the horizon of my own existence, and you feel like a promise, or a wish. Stay there. Don't leave. I have something to live for. I'm learning.
I'll learn.
Letter to a Me Who Does Not Exist (Anymore, Yet, or Otherwise)
I am sleepy, hazy, muddled, crampy, and bloodless. I feel like a child today. I wish for someone to take care of me.
I want my mother.
Sometimes I get so tired, but you know all about that. Sometimes I think I am an existentialist in mind and a dreamer at heart, painfully aware all too often that nothing matters and nothing lasts and unable to stop the terrible wanting, regardless.
I want life to be a story, and seeing it as such helps me get through the days. But it isn't a story, it's just living. And I am not so good at that. (Perhaps you, alternate version me, have fared better in your world. Perhaps you haven't built a dark tower of fears around you. Shall we trade for a day?)
And so here it goes again: I want, I want, I want. How nice it would be for something small and durable and forever unchanging to cling to. A pebble, perhaps. Lately I've been keeping my stuffed bunny and my baby blanket hidden away in the closet (must keep up this pretense of maturity, even if I'm not fooling anyone, certainly not you) but I find myself taking them out again at the oddest times, crawling into bed with my arms holding tight, breathing in the years and years.
Today I walked home and the sun was low and I could see the rays the way you can sometimes, the world gone soft and dim and orange, and I wanted more than anything to be able to cry. I never want that, but I thought, just once, how good it would feel, the release.
I'm premenstrual, it's true, and so very weary. I can smell myself, earthy and human and warm, and I wish you were here, I wish you were real. You'd be warm skin and blood and I wouldn't have to say a word. You could show me how to live this life I persist in wasting away. I think you could show me how to live.
(And I know if you know, it means I know too. But I've forgotten, it's too lost to me, it's buried too deeply in doubt and fear and distrust, and I don't know how to find it. I wouldn't even know where to look.)
Not now. Stay in your world. Don't come out. I will be all right on my own. I can feel you, almost, on the horizon of my own existence, and you feel like a promise, or a wish. Stay there. Don't leave. I have something to live for. I'm learning.
I'll learn.
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