6/17/20

I'm caught up in it all.
It's taken hold of me
and spit me out.

Now I'm going through the motions.
I know I'm working.
I know I'm doing important things.
But I feel as though
I am stagnant.
But time still passes on around me.
I feel like I'm losing time.

I wake up.
I go to work.
I come home.
Then I go to sleep.

Then I do it again.

On weekends,
I wake up.
I write.
I clean.
Then I go to sleep.

Then I do it again.

Except none of this is true.
I do more things.
But it feels like nothing.

I feel like nothing.
Yet, I'm happy.

At least intellectually.
When I think about my days and weeks,
I know I enjoy being productive.
I know I enjoy my job.
I know I enjoy writing.
And I'm doing all those things.

Yet,
here I am writing.
And I don't think this one is going to be happy.
I'm not sure I even have it in me
to make it naively hopeful.

I'm not even sure how I'm going to finish this.

Maybe I need to have more free time.
Maybe I need to see my friends more.
Maybe I need to just stop.

Because something isn't working.
And if this is working,
I want to be broken.

Maybe that's it.
This isn't working, because I don't.
Maybe I'm too broken for this to work.

Maybe I need to stop trying to work,
and just focus on being broken.

Broken let's me write.
Broken let's me paint.
Broken let's me create.

Broken is so much better than working.

Or maybe that's just what I say to make the pain seem worth it.

• • •

Author's Note - 8/15/20
That's a lot less hopeful than I usually am.

I mean I try to at least end
on a more positive note.

Tie it all together with a little peace of mind,
convince myself that it's fine.

And in the my strife for
earnest honesty with myself,
and whoever stumbles upon my ramblings,
I feel the need to give you the rest of the story.

That I—obnoxiously—decided to leave out to fit the story
I felt like believing.

Because in retrospect every picture is clearer.

So here it is,
I do not feel comfortable being content.

There. I said it.

For some reason I've convinced myself that
I'm not cable of being content.

Maybe that's partially true.
I feel most alive when I'm
feverishly writing
metaphors,
smilies,
and fragile wings.

Maybe I like that feeling of utter confusion and bafflement at my experience and it's relation to the human experience.

But I doubt that.
At least for the most part.

Because I don't think
suffering,
or confusion,
or pain,
is the only stuff
you can create
great things from.

So now whenever I feel truly content in life,
my writing changes.

And suddenly I tell myself
being okay,
isn't okay for me.

I don't want that.

I think it's important I write
poems,
and essays,
and stories,
about not only the
suffering,
or confusion,
or pain.

Because that's not all my life or the human experience is made of.

And is being true to capturing every facet of the human experience not the exact purpose of poetry?

So let me make sure
that anyone who's reading this
gets the hope they need from this,
because the stars know we all need it.

Suffering,
and confusion,
and pain,
are not necessary for you to
become something grand.

Contentment does not mean you have failed in your dreams.

It does not mean your inspiration will disappear.

Pain is not essential to creating.
Living is.

And living is always,
suffering,
and confusion,
and pain.

But it's also,
joy,
hope,
and even
contentment.

Content for just awhile longer,
Eliza Bright