zephyranthes

destination

so, like, the work all piles up on your shoulders until sleepwalking sounds like a good idea
and there's this feeling bothering you, creeping at the corners of your mind
tells you not to look, tells you to avoid the topic
it's like second-hand embarrassment
but harsher, more unknown
a variable in a system that's supposed to be made up of constants
and, like, you don't want to deal with this
don't want to deal at all, not with anything
and entertaining the thought of a destination, of a place where this is all headed to
it makes you sick
because you're not sure how the future is going to screw you over this time
and you don't know how to get yourself together in a way that really looks "adult"
"acceptable"
or whatever those terms mean
you're like peter pan, except you trade in the fairy dust
and you start flying with jetliners and flight tickets instead
and maybe you've never been on an airplane, or maybe you recognize the sound of turbulence too well
and maybe you suck at learning or maybe you can't get your hands on a book you've never read
but this keeps itching at your senses
and there's a destination, somewhere, metaphorical-not-literal
but for now you're just scribbling frantic words and hoping they'll make sense to someone
whatever it takes to stop feeling so sick
but maybe you never respected peter pan at all
and maybe you've got you sights set on something higher, better than lost boys and disappeared items washing ashore
so reread that flight ticket
and replace hope with resolve
you've got a destination, and you've got the means to get to it
you can do it.