Tiny Plastic Houses

Till Me Under, Plant My Heart…

Lately, for reasons I can’t define, I’ve been having a hard time dealing with a lot of loss I’ve experienced over the past few years. I try not to think on it a lot, but it’s still there watching from just off stage like a nervous stage mother — So much pressure to act natural and ever make a good impression.

Sometimes, if I slow down long enough, I am immediately dumped right into the middle of all the emotion I don’t share with the world: The sad stuff you feel depressingly stupid simply admitting, the moments where you feel so lost and alone, the unanswered grief, the empty time, the yearning that leads to nothing. All those moment when you realize that all there is, all you can really count on, is right in front of you — That this moment could be the penultimate of where you’ve been, where you’re going… And if that’s the case (which it most surely is) how much potential has been squandered? How much life has been left unlived. How much suffering and pain and loss have you experienced… all for… this?

I admit, I’m a worker bee. I do what I’m told, what is expected. I try not to dwell on things that can’t be changed. I try not to focus on all the things that are so much a part of me that must be denied in order to function. The things that must not be spoken, yet exist just the same. The ghosts of your past. The glimmers of futures that will never be. The shadows of dreams long since dead. Fallen cities lost in the pages of time. Each and every one.

It’s depressing and I try very hard to avoid it… but still, it sits waiting for me to stumble and fall into the hole I’ve dug. Still, I claw out and move on.

Is there any other way?

~Hollie

This entry was posted on Monday, March 3rd, 2014 at 9:29 am. It is filed under Blog and tagged with blog, My Body the Hand Grenade. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.