“What if I told you I’m incapable of tolerating my own heart?” -Virginia Woolf

I’m on the ground again. I can’t write anywhere else. The black Keds on my feet throb to get up and move. The words won’t come. My thoughts mingle around and tempt me, my arm desperately reaches out to grab one, but my eyes grow weary as I watch them dissipate just beyond my fingers.

I can’t make sense of it. They don’t feel like my own. I’m suddenly disconnected from my own consciousness, my heart wandering to far off places, maneuvering in and around corners and holes I’ve never dared to explore.

I’ve lost hold of my awareness. I’m finding blanks where I used to see complexity, some sort of path to understanding. The tips of my fingers fall flat against the keyboard; deflated, exhausted.

I’m not finding any answers tonight. 

Does it make you a worse off human to have lost touch with the feeling of your own heartbeat?

Somewhere along the well-worn path of searching for answers and healing for the brokenness of others, I’ve constructed my own castle of pain. I find myself here tonight, walking between the cold castle walls, crying out to the emptiness of the tall ceilings,

“Where did I go wrong? Where did I lose direction?”

Silence proceeds my exhale and I continue on.

The darkness and I flirt with one another, both of us toeing the line between sentience and hysteria.



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