I feel like there’s an obligation to acknowledge: you don’t get drunk and drag the lake.
That being said, I’ve hired emotional divers and I’m paying OT.
That’s the full disclosure, braille-reader.
I spend cold nights feeling my toes get frostbite and hearing the thunder of airplanes taking off while slowly the creeping reality spreads like a wasting disease in my brain. It can’t rain enough to make up the difference. And still I play it like my compartments are sectioned off better than the archives in Indiana Jones. I feel. It’s not great and now that I’m allowing myself moments of reflection, I feel. The routines and grooves I dug into life are hard to forget. I took a lot, too much, for granted and found myself miserable before being thankful. Maybe it should be that I instead just count myself lucky, but I’m sitting still and thinking of the pieces that I’ve lost and sighing heavily.
It hurts. And I realize that it is necessary and the way is open and honest and in the best of emotional circumstances, but I don’t have to like it. I just have to live with it and grow from the experience. But this is something I will carry with me until I die. Hopefully, the weight isn’t too much.
