Do you know that feeling where nothing’s wrong and yet nothing feels right?
For the past two weeks, I feel like I’ve survived each day with a lump in my throat and a knife in my heart. Everywhere and anywhere, I ache. I’m constantly anxious and unsettled, filled with trepidation and fear so encapsulating that I stumble, stumble, stumble. It’s to the point that if I’m watching or reading something sad, I’m not tearing up but friggin’ bawling. Three times this week; crazy person. I am a mess.
This anxiousness eventually took a toll on my health earlier this week, which then took a toll on my studies. I’ve revised my entire schedule, so indecisive with my classes and freaking out over everything be it substantial matter like homework or not-so-important like reading materials. To be honest, although I’ve confirmed my schedule – because I need to decide something, dammit – until now, I am not feeling my class combination. I don’t know what I know. There’s just so much that I feel. I just –
I want to stop sounding like an excuse. Or an apology. Forget sad songs, none of that either. I want to stop sounding sad and uncertain, so heavy is the shadow that drags behind me. This lump in my throat, what does it take for it to go away?
“Even if it wasn’t part of the plan,” she replied, “you’re still loved by all of us, whichever person you decide to be. Okay? … This growing up curve is a steep one indeed.”
Do ghosts mourn the living?
When the light can’t reach us,
is that what it’s about?
There are days I wake up lonely,
and it feels like thunder.
If rain happens in a dream,
does it count at all?
I wanted to hold the sky inside of me
like a secret.
I wanted her to rest her head on my chest
and tell me about the storms
that made her eyelids heavy.
I wanted my heart to stay loud for me,
but I put my hands up to my ears
whenever it tried to be more than a whisper.
a newspaper talks about a girl
whose poetry left her
and never came back.
I picture a room full of songbirds
who lost their voices.
If they find them again in a dream,
does it count at all?
We’re just trying to fix the parts of ourselves
destroyed by the weight of
our own grief.
We’re just trying to hold the world in
no matter how much dirt
is left underneath
— Y.Z., A Lost Language