I wake up in a room that’s an approximation of one from my childhood. In my dream I was falling from the sky, perpetually, indefinitely, in a way that never brought me closer to the ground. And then my eyes open and I no longer see clouds but the feeling is still there, still inside me. In this quasi-childhood bedroom the objects around me should be familiar, but I see each of them singularly, outside of context, all shapes and colours devoid of essence. The universe exploded into life trillions of years ago and since that moment every atom, every particle, is expanding outwards, racing towards the edge of the cosmos.
All the objects in my room are falling too.
Suspended in motion, a flurry of movement and effort, every inch of every being rushing towards a precipice.
And shouldn’t I be grateful I can never be truly stagnant?
It’s November but it feels like nothing has come before this. Remember the idea that the universe snapped into existence 3 seconds ago, and you awakened with memories of a non-time and a non-life? That’s what this November feels like, like nothing before this was real, just false-memory and false-belief. I would like to believe very much that this is true. I would like to believe very much that I am new, that this body and this life has just started, that I can count my days of existence on my hands, that my past is just a complex dream.
I would like very much to live unburdened.
I think that’s what all of this boils down to. A heaviness. Or else a lightness. Or just the wrong concentration of gravity – all I know is I shouldn’t feel like this. Maybe that’s what it really boils down to. An inarticulable conviction that this isn’t right. That this can’t be it. That I shouldn’t wake up
Yesterday I felt on the verge of tears, but that’s as far as I got. The verge of tears, but never the tears themselves.
A year ago I wrote
‘I want to cry this life
out of my system but I think
my tear ducts are broken.
Nothing spills over the edge
And how upsetting to think I am still there. That I spent hours in my dream, falling through life times, to wake up in the exact spot where I once used to be.
(My ouroboros tattoo is rolling its eyes at me. Haven’t I written this a million times before? Don’t I know this already? Or else; when will I learn?)
My psychologist tells me I am afraid to write things down for fear of immortalising them. How do I tell her I’m just afraid of repeating myself?
How do I tell myself a poem is not a life sentence, you are allowed to disagree with past selves, you are allowed to embrace them, to wipe the tears off their cheeks, you are allowed to forgive your mother, and your self. Always, you are allowed to forgive yourself.
Repeat after me: I am not holding this against you.
Repeat after me: this is not a diary entry, a pen is not a weapon, the ink does not have to be forged out of tears.
(But it can be if you want it to.)
Repeat after me: I forgive you.
I water my plants when I need to look after my self. My room is a jungle of delegated self love. And sometimes when I water a plant too heavily, I wake up the next morning and find on a leaf tip a perfectly formed droplet, poised to fall.
I think this is called weeping.
It is all I can do to do the thing least destructive in this moment. Some days I cannot manage even that. But those days are getting fewer and farther in between. And isn’t the fact I can write these words evidence enough?
I used to write for catharsis. Then I wrote for posterity. Sometimes I write because I am unsure of everything except that which is on the page. These days I don’t know what I write for, except for this:
To water a plant is to believe in tomorrow;
To write a poem is to believe _____________________________.