I have been joyous, but today I
recognise the swamp as my knees push V shapes through the woven greenery
and its nutrient rich slime. Just stop. Don’t do anything yet. Don’t push.
But I am stressed; like I am pushing, a whole lot of life through the spout of a funnel. Remember Krista, you’ve got time to go through the transition. There is no rush. Deal with what you feel.
I sit far to the outside of all things; I am so much the observer that I have stopped being. I look on today, and don’t know how to approach.
Central aspects to my existence have fallen away and I am in disconnection. My world appears shrunken. Limbs and skin buckle and crumble and bones heave against the weight of new beginnings.
From what was to what will be with a full vessel of cans and maybes and should-bees to guide my hand shakes with fear and potentiality screeches and screams within the tin. You would do well to get comfortable with the mess. This could take a while.
Transition made inside nightmares. The body breaks down, the soul wide, the mind having nowhere left to hide, and eyes of shattered glass feels surely like seven years bad luck.
Momentarily blind I can no longer see in the same way what was behind, but I return time and time again to find comfort in the familiarity that is really no longer there, and I choose to ignore the shards and cracks that come and go with the sweeping of my lashes. How can you stand in the past expecting a present?
Now I must choose whether to persevere in this dangerous safety or whether to be willing to go a new kind of blind - the one made from new light; the one made from unfamiliar sunrises; the one made from the forging of precious things; the one made by and old star dying and a new one being born.
But I am stressed; like I am pushing, a whole lot of life through the spout of a funnel. Remember Krista, you’ve got time to go through the transition. There is no rush. Deal with what you feel.
I sit far to the outside of all things; I am so much the observer that I have stopped being. I look on today, and don’t know how to approach.
Central aspects to my existence have fallen away and I am in disconnection. My world appears shrunken. Limbs and skin buckle and crumble and bones heave against the weight of new beginnings.
From what was to what will be with a full vessel of cans and maybes and should-bees to guide my hand shakes with fear and potentiality screeches and screams within the tin. You would do well to get comfortable with the mess. This could take a while.
Transition made inside nightmares. The body breaks down, the soul wide, the mind having nowhere left to hide, and eyes of shattered glass feels surely like seven years bad luck.
Momentarily blind I can no longer see in the same way what was behind, but I return time and time again to find comfort in the familiarity that is really no longer there, and I choose to ignore the shards and cracks that come and go with the sweeping of my lashes. How can you stand in the past expecting a present?
Now I must choose whether to persevere in this dangerous safety or whether to be willing to go a new kind of blind - the one made from new light; the one made from unfamiliar sunrises; the one made from the forging of precious things; the one made by and old star dying and a new one being born.
Krista
Rune Ink
