You can do whatever you want with your life and what better time than now to just choose to make it happen!? they say.

I say, whoever said that obviously has no clue how complicated that shit can be, obviously hasn’t lived in the unforgiving cruelty of the barren nothinggrief land that dries out your every need, every hope, and every desire before any of them can reach the edge of your parched lips. (What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?)

Oh, the lips. The tongue.

And the heart. The heart! It is resilient, it can go on, they say. But when you are a hollowed out shell of love and loss, your heart just hanging there beat beat beating can feel like such a mockery. An echo of dreams that used to be.

Thump thump thump you are walking you are walking you are walking

without a hope, a prayer, or a savior this time. Because, well… it’s not about those things this time.

(How did it all come to this? Maybe you took a wrong turn? Where did the magic go?)

"There is a secret medicine given only to those who hurt so hard they can't hope. The hopers would feel slighted if they knew." -Rumi

To die might be a relief, but it wouldn’t take away the great white nothingness that has consumed you, because you can feel how its grasp is relentless. How it reaches far, through the veil to the other side. How it permeates everything. How it nails you to things you can’t see that you might miss if you thought it was only about the things you could see.

How you can’t explain that to anyone else let alone yourself. How every plan, every idea for a way out is a spark that just won’t catch.

No. There is no conceiving. No escape. No way to vision board or manifest or carpe diem your way out of this one. Not this time.

Just your dead legs walking, your heartbeat mock mock mocking, and the faithless, empty white nothing nothing nothing around every corner

until…

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