Note to self on this bleak day
Grasping at hope, at love. Something I wrote at 6am...
Whisk your tears into the pan, scramble them, with cracks of egg-shell, cracks of hope.
Think of all the other times you’ve taken spoons to pans, 6am, wired to the votes rolling in, the tick, tick, tick of your useless mind that can’t turn off, but terror stops you from fully tuning in.
It’s a special kind of numbness.
No, you did not want to stand here again. This charcoal cloak feeling heavier, bleaker than ever before. Commuters begin to walk up your street, heavy bags under their eyes. A silence that screams.
You’re looking for something, anything. What you held yesterday, that you can’t find today.
Your sister sends a picture of the empty beach that she stands on, the sky changing over the water. Your dad sends you what she can see, from her chair. She tells you to find hope. She’s found it, even when her trans life, her glorious being, is being played with, a pawn in a politician’s game.
So you can, you’ve managed before, searching through that parma-violet sunrise, knowing there’s a new day to be found when the sky blazes orange.
Hope is there, also, when the sky softens, those fizzy blues.
You have to find it. You have to find it. You have to find it.
It’s not there, in the liqueur you could pour into your coffee. You know that never washes anything away.
You have to tug at this fear, this rage, pull it from deep within your belly and throw it at something.
Something good. Something that will help.
There’s power, in feeling powerless. You can find it.
You can push through this grey sky, feel the soft rain on your face.
You can send love to your friends. Think of the tiny ways we fight each day.
How collective whispers turn into roars.
Keep going. Try.
I believe in you so much.
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If this helped, please share it. And sending so much love.
Love this, love you.