The Stream Flows…

The duration doesn’t seem to matter, I always wake up exhausted.

I’m trying to keep face, I’m trying to maintain a social life, wear the mask…

I hope poetry tomorrow to be as cleansing as I’ve grown to expect, though my enjoyment of it may start to waver in the face of the anxiety surely to spike via the group I’ve convinced to attend this week.

The more the merrier, or so they say…

Eq’s Shower Philosophy

My soap was blue this morning.

Having been expecting the green I’d grown accustomed to over years, I found myself contemplating change…

The changes my life has undergone recently are pervasive and staggering.  The passage of time seems to give precisely zero fucks about my belabored breathing.  I can’t believe how much time has past… it’s been months since you left.

I’ve crashed face first into the realization that I probably will never see you again…though beyond that, if I were to see you again…I’m doubtful you’d be the same woman I knew and loved.

The will of fate and time be done, and the cries of anguish are ignored. 

The Stream Flows…

The weekend, though long,  seemed shorter than most. I made it through unscathed of course, but I’d be lying if I said my thoughts over the duration were without turmoil.

Headaches seem common place throughout my days lately, but we make do.  We grin and bear it, no one needs to know.

I’d convinced myself of weakness in past months.  I shook, and I cried in fear of all the things I perceived as beyond myself. The months of disillusionment, the medication, my imagined weakness, it’s all fading,  slowly.

How did I ever come to believe I was this fragile?