"the hard season⠀ will⠀ split you through. ⠀ do not worry. ⠀ you will bleed water.⠀ do not worry.⠀ this is grief. ⠀ your face will fall out and down your skin⠀ and ⠀ there will be scorching. ⠀ but do not worry. ⠀ keep speaking the years from their hiding places.⠀ keep coughing up smoke from all the deaths you⠀ have died. ⠀ keep the rage tender. ⠀ because the soft season will come. ⠀ it will come ⠀ loud. ⠀ ready. ⠀ gulping.⠀ both hands in your chest. up all night.⠀ up all of the nights. ⠀ to drink all damage into love." - @nayyirah.waheed
Empty journals are this thing I practically lust over. Ones with steadfast binding and unlined pages, spiral notebooks don’t interest me. I love writing; the act of physically doing it and having my thoughts pour out is, and has always been, a sigh of relief. That being said, I always struggle with journaling. My half finished volumes of the past haunt me with a feeling of incompetence.⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ “If you aren’t feverishly writing in it every day, words effortlessly dripping from your brand new fine point Sharpie pen, then why even do it at all? Who do you even think you are anyway? Who the hell keeps JOURNALS anymore? It’s 2017, and you’re a pretentious imposter desperately chasing the idea of being a real artist.” ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Ridiculous, yes, but totally the dialogue I have with myself every time I go to write anything down. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ I’ve never been one to gingerly dip my toe in anything. Dabbling doesn’t suit me, and that’s not so much a part of my personality as it is a fear based reflex. The idea that I could go weeks or months in between journaling is nothing short of anxiety inducing. Something in me cannot take or fathom the idea of using it as an outlet without needing to do it every day. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ If I am not all, I am nothing, and entering the gray areas of “sometimes” “maybe” or the absolute worst, “I don’t know,” fills me with a visceral fear that shakes my being like nothing else. If something isn’t perfect, it most certainly has to be awful, and that view courses through me in every aspect of my life. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ Learning to sit with the uncertainty is one of the most painful parts of handling borderline. I mean it when I say it takes a huge amount of mental energy for me to even fathom the idea that I can do something that brings me immense joy sometimes, that love can exist in the waves of rage, that there isn’t just solid colors of my being, but gradients
“flowers” you once said, why give me flowers? i don’t keep them alive anyway well, i may not be the haven of horticulture… but that doesn’t mean that i didn’t feel every petal beneath my fingertips gently cherishing the softness, or breathe in the life of each flower - appreciating it for its time on earth for me admire. but maybe i loved them too much, overwatering them with my anxiety to keep them alive, and yet ironically overpowering them with too much - an excerpt from a poem by @jenna_juniper Click the link in my bio for the full set!