bottles and a closet door

it isn’t much to live life without facing down the waters, rising.  pointed asides and snide comments all, do little to ease the frustration so often bottled and buried.  as a twenty-something in this modern world, we are left to be left if not for our leaving ourselves.  it is indeed ourselves we too often decide don’t deserve clarity or, at the least, have not the strength to seek it out, much less find it.  perhaps it is the fact that to be clear isn’t possible.  even as our thoughts are filed and compartmentalized, we are left with an inability to speak forth rightly, allowing those close to us to hear and be heard the same.  and to understand.  it is in misunderstanding we tend to pile up our wants and needs, care and love, and push it all into the closet of our subconscious selves, disallowing our truest version to burst throw the door, unhinged.  

it’s difficult though, isn’t it?  this world i inhabit is slightly different than yours.  

this time i waste is all the more separate from that which you may feel is simply time spent.  if not spent wisely, then it’s all the better that what you’re doing means nothing to you.  it means all the same, either way.

because you don’t know anything but what you can know, even though you could try harder to understand that which is right there to be understood.

i don’t know anything either, except what i’ve learned.  

but what i’ve learned is that nothing can be taught to you even though you could and can and should but won’t teach it to yourself.  you’re better than you think you are.  you’re stronger than you say you are.  you’re smarter than you could hope to be.  you’re more willing than wishful but less wistful by the day.  you’re a lovely soul.  your grace is unique but disguised by your penchant for greed.  you’re more selfless than you think.  and more important than your common tease.

break down the door.

discover what you’ve bottled up.  

drink it and get drunk.

stagger through the streets alone.

sober up.

lift your chin and be glad for the intoxicating power of walking naked through the winter wind, blowing.

i know it’s cold.

i know it isn’t easy.

no one said it was

“we are the products of editing, rather than authorship.”
-george wald

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