I’m writing this with tears filling the once dry moats of my eyes. trying to withhold them with the imaginary suctions i have at each corner. You know what those days are like. you know that feeling when you come across that one trigger. that one thing that brings you back. you begin to question if that dark cloud ever truly dissipates.
I don’t know if it’s wrong to think that it’ll never go away and that you just have to live with it and acknowledge it. adapt and teach yourself ways of redirection. And maybe that is ‘just’ the way of living.
But, when it’s happening, when all those emotions hit you at once, and you feel so hopeless about it, so heartbroken, so nostalgic, just life broken; just write. keep writing. pick up that instrument, and exhale. exhale the notes of your thoughts, the strokes of that brush, the swivels and scratches of that pencil. let it go. use that dark patch, gather it, use it as the new soil for your imaginary seed, and nourish the shit out of that plant. make it grow, trim it down, paint it gold, set it on fire, and let the wind carry the ashes away.