• 7 months ago
  • 504
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”

— "A Good Day", Kait Rokowski

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway)

  • 7 months ago
  • 215828

(Source: opus-nocturne)

  • 7 months ago
  • 11119

Nobody knows my sorrow like the rainbow-haired
sandwich artist at the Subway on State Street—
not my latest lover whom I won’t bring home
to see the groceries I haven’t bought, three weeks
musty laundry amassed across bathroom tile,
the life I haven’t attended to since October gloomed.

The gray horizon made a witch of me. I said horrible
things to the ones I love. Now, who will unbury me?

Each cheap take-out order, a declaration of
unbearable without limit: the cracking and whisking
of eggs, taking steel wool to the frying pan,
all these banalities made Herculean by the slippage
between illness and blues. I turn off my phone
to lessen the pathos of no one calling to say
this too shall pass, like in a good chick flick
where the damsel grows into a catalogue posture.

The gray horizon made a witch of me. I said horrible
things to the ones I love. Now, who will unbury me?

Nobody knows my sorrow like my sorrow knows
the square footage of my apartment, how many steps
it takes to pace from one end to the other—the flex
of calve and creek of joints, the plodding trudge,
its austere territory. I can still circle spots on my body
that want to touch the world and be touched.

The gray horizon made a witch of me. I said horrible
things to the ones I love. Now, who will unbury me?

— "Which Witch I’ve Been", Stevie Edwards

  • 7 months ago
  • 13
  • 7 months ago
Like all who are impassioned, I take blissful delight in losing myself, in fully experiencing the thrill of surrender. And so I often write with no desire to think, in an externalized reverie, letting the words cuddle me like a baby in their arms. They form sentences with no meaning, flowing softly like water I can feel, a forgetful stream whose ripples mingle and undefine, becoming other, still other ripples, and still again other. Thus ideas and images, throbbing with expressiveness, pass through me in resounding processions of pale silks on which imagination shimmers like moonlight, dappled and indefinite.

— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

  • 7 months ago
  • 16

(Source: giokernelpanic)

  • 8 months ago
  • 96