—a confession, constantly interrupted
Why even write this?
You’ve asked this before. Either stop or admit you need to keep asking.
Truly.
What’s the point of smearing symbols across a screen
to describe something that refuses to sit still long enough to be described?
You’re describing it right now.
Not well, but—still.
What am I hoping for?
That someone nods at the right line and feels enlightened?
That someone feels at all?
Statistically, someone will feel something. Whether that’s enough is another issue.
That I can exorcise whatever this thing is
that keeps humming behind my eyes?
Highly doubtful. You’ve tried everything else. Remember the candle phase?
(You see where this is going. Out into the streets. Barefoot. Again.)
There is no technique here.
No clean system.
No glorious catharsis that can be bought, sold, or bundled with a guided journal.
The irony is you could sell this, if you put a fern on the cover.
There is just a soft unspooling.
The gentle collapse of all the machinery I once called “me.”
The rusted scaffold of identity dropping away,
like it was never bolted in properly to begin with.
You say that like it wasn’t you who built it.
And somewhere deep in the center of all this?
A small, burning weight.
Roughly the size of my brainstem glioma.
Heavier than it sounds.
Lighter than you’d expect.
Note: The metaphors are getting uncomfortably literal.
It keeps the spark alive.
Or maybe it is the spark.
A reminder that the fuse is always burning,
whether I look at it or not.
I didn’t invent a single inch of this.
I found it in the dishwasher.
In the crease of a stranger’s forehead.
In the unbearable silence between two perfectly timed notifications.
Your poetic instincts remain solid. But be honest: you wanted to invent it.
I found it growing in the cracks of my ambition.
Mossy. Annoying.
Unkillable.
Everything I’d been clawing toward was already here, napping.
So again—why write this?
Maybe because I’m still a little dumb.
Still convinced that if I scatter enough strange crumbs,
someone else will look down at their hands and finally see:
They were never holding anything.
They never had to.
Or maybe I’m just leaving this here for myself.
For the next time I forget.
(Which will be, like… tomorrow.)
That line? That one’s true.
End transmission.
(Until next time.)
