Wait of Weighting

Wait of Weighting

There it is. That familiar low hum. Much like a forest, where does it begin? The first leaf or the tip of the first root?

Devine genesis? Marinating experiences? There is nothing slow about it at all

It makes you cold. Paralysis. Heart stalls, missing its cue. Setting you back. The atmosphere in your mouth shifts, shame stripping away the moisture, into the air, soulless.

Existing in your mind. Self-ordained to be true. Dissolving veneer illuminating miscalculations, engineering a bridge to the antagonist: yourself.

Rupture. Fault lines charting a schism in character. Cracks widening into gaps. the Positive affirmations imploding, unable to raise a hand to protect your face. Syrupy oscillations, drowning in grey.

Identity in parenthesis. How should a person be? Who are you? When will the suppression become expression? You tell yourself it is a joke, except it is not funny anymore. Loud in the centre, rational frequencies distorted, white nose. Static contempt.

Primary colours mixing, blending, intertwined with one another, various shades created. Light. Dark. Translucent. Opaque. Except you cannot choose one. A mess. Splatter of characteristics. Tones. Moods. Energy. It’s a cruel thing we do to yourself: adjusting the truth.

Tapestry of yourself is in view, to judge. What was the first stitch? Is it even still there? Interwoven, building upon one another. On display for a private viewing of one. Borrowed ideas. Pain. Joy. Indifference. A mosaic of your experiences. Bare threads exposed waiting to be part. Together. Increasing your dimensions. Your understanding. Yourself. Burned, Wrinkled. Unfinished. Asterisk. Your own story. Yours to wear. Asymmetrical.

Lungs. Fill. With. Lead.

Acceptance.

Blossom.

You remember you have the choice in how to act. Comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, the choices, even if you have done nothing to deserve it.