27.07.16
Dear July,
Words are a powerful thing, aren't they? We are told to weigh them carefully and consider them critically before we release them.
There are so many forms that they can take-poems, songs, letters, books; written, spoken or silent.
Sometimes it's more powerful to say a small nothing than to say a wasteful something. Sometimes words can't truly convey our feelings and meanings.
How to you comfort someone who is suffering a great loss? How can you explain the unfathomable anguish of being unseen?
The truth is, there are some things that words can't cover.
It is an art to find the right words. There is an infinite number of words, but only an infinitesimal number of words that are apt for a particular use. Hmm, I don't know if I'm describing this the way I think about it. It's hard to put my thoughts on a paper. I hate to see them constrained to a page-they should be free to fly in my inextinguishable imagination.
Some days, I really don't know what I'm doing. Take this moment for instant. I'm writing a letter to you, dear July, but I also have a million questions floating around in my mind. Do I dare to ask them? Do I dare to give them voice? Do I dare to acknowledge them?
I wish you could give me some advice. I wish I knew what to do.
I'm so scared of the future. I'm terrified of losing people, of being alone. I'm afraid of the world-of trying to navigate this crazy transition between child and adult. It's all hitting me at once. I'm absolutely terrified of it all and no one seems to understand. They expect so much of me and I can feel myself caving a little more each day. I fear that eventually there won't be anything left. I wonder if it would be worth just giving in-just admitting defeat and leaving them to pick up the pieces of that destruction that I would leave in my wake.
I contemplate it more and more each day-it has become yet another thing to worry over and fear for.
The panic clutches at my chest. I can no longer remember what it feels like to sleep properly. For not even in innocent slumber am I saved from the torment. I have lost my appetite and every day is a laborious chore. My weary limbs complain and I don't know how much more of this I can truly bare. My mind screams for rest, my heart for solace and my spirit for peace.
I suppose at the end of the day, all we can do is trust that tomorrow really does hold better days. Because my hope is sure running thin.
Until Tomorrow,
E xx
YOU ARE READING
Dear July
Non-FictionA poem? A letter? A time capsual? This project is somehwere in between. Inside you'll find the somewhat crytpic but mostly honest musings of a writer, artist and coffee adict. -- These letters are part of a long-term time-capsual project and are u...
