You’re telling me some days are lackluster and that the only goal is to survive?
I loathe the idea.
I have a hard time taking life day by day. I attribute this mostly to my childhood being disoriented on a Monday and doing complete turnarounds in the middle of the week. I’m in a bitter mood, so comparison is indeed going to rip up the floor tiles of this entry. Hopefully only in a good way.
Most 8 year olds were hung up on when the next treat or recess was going to be. I was hung up on whether my mom was going to uproot me just because she felt like it. And I say mom, because my dad really took a step back and let her do what she wanted. I hope he looks back on that as a mistake, which he probably does.
Roots don’t have a place in my family. They tried. Similar to looking at your hand when you squeeze your fists together, the grip that we tried to have on rooting ourselves anywhere was desperate at times. Restricted blood flow. Caused physical pain. Following my mother’s death, the grip did loosen.
Arguably, my mother wasn’t a matriarch. Some women just aren’t. I loved when she tried her best. I didn’t realize that the love I felt during that time would translate into adulthood years later.
Tradition, routine, cleanliness, schedules, meant doing activities that you never wanted to do. Meant fixing objects and situations only for the time being.
Why can’t the good shit just fucking last?
The incredulity I give myself are lenses in the glasses I use to view situations like these. You mean to tell me I fell for the charm, the communication, the rhythm AGAIN? When all I wanted was the respect, the compassion, the commitment? You’re a fucking loser, girl.
Silly of me to not understand nonchalant, harmful communication styles. At my big age. I’m 26 and I just can’t understand why people think speaking to you in a certain way is even remotely okay.
“I just thought we were cool like that.”
What is cool about being told that the whole world is against you? I know people don’t think about you like that. That survival mode is the default setting. I’m so sick of that rhetoric.
I just looked up the definition of rhetoric.
• the art of using language effectively or persuasively in speaking or writing to influence an audience. •
Rhetoric being referred to as an art is the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.
But rhetoric definitely is painting a picture. If you can get through the day, there will be a way.
Fuuuuucckkkkkk that.
I want to build.
To mold.
To shape.
And unfortunately, yes, to hold.
Isolation is my specialty. I’m like the moon in that sense. The dark calls to me. I wanted to write this entry because I have connection. It’s through this phone. My day in and day out people (coworkers) are in it. And I’m talking to some, trying to resolve resentment, and I’m just hearing musical accompaniment in my head. More specifically, the humming in Frank Ocean’s White Ferrari. I attribute doing this also to the trend about hearing the saxophone.
My life is so relative to that because I’m always expecting it to blow up. I just want scream to the top of my lungs but people can’t hear me. I am so sick of that.
So the saxophone plays, and the humming rises, and the accompaniment to the doom that you choose to prefer is incessant. All in all one thing remains to be true:
I will get through this.
That’s the montage I continue to repeat.
Or maybe it’s a prayer.
[Image Description: A tilted, dark photo of what may be legible to you or not, it’s a door. My bathroom light can’t be turned off, and my son wouldn’t turn off his brain to go to bed so he grabbed my phone and started taking pictures. I hope this isn’t how he views the world. Like he’s in a dark room and the light is on the other side. I hope he feels comfortable enough to open the door and allow both sides of yourself to blend together, or just to meet. Good and bad. You need both. Remember to breathe today.]