I tried to relate.
Maybe I did, on some level. The habit was hard to start and ever harder to finish. To become easily connected to a fantasy world, to be able to live, rather than just survive in a harsh reality.
It's a clear contradiction; to be able to let go of that obsessive control we feel we need over our minds, enough to actually hold on to this fantasy we create.
Sure, when you attempt to understand your own mind, you can become consumed by your own demons, and shut the door rather quickly, not wanting to see what's inside. It's a tricky balance, that line between maintaining control and letting go.
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There was a time where my mind just saw black and white - believed in the black and white. It was simple; I won't lie, to not feel more or less, just enough to live on. But I was the little girl who saw my dad as a hero, oblivious to my mother's wounds, drawn to a delusional world. Cotton candy sky. To see the good was so effortless. So natural.
Yet I grew, sprouted and flourished; caterpillar to butterfly.
My cotton candy sky grew darker, and my conscious grew,
with navy indigo brush strokes that dominated my sky
I found myself at home - in the healing dark.
YOU ARE READING
Elsewhere
PoëzieNot a happy ending. Nor novel structured. Neither predictable, not quite relatable. Let your mind wander, and your imagination run away with you. Because baby, we are at the end of the world.
