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Far too many choices

Standing among several forks in the road.
Feet frozen with whispers of direction.
My throat is tight lipped,
mind walking a strained rope of indecision.

There is no wrong direction.
No wrong answer.
No stupid question.

Statements meant to ease tension cause my cells to freeze with anticipation of trickery.
My skin tenses as I beg these feet to reconnect with gut instinct.
Wishing and willing the quiet to bring anything but this cacophony of hesitation.

A plethora of choices before me are subject to distortion.
Once an exciting prospect has turned debilitating.
My wide eyes fall into the cracks of the possibilities before me.
Breath swallowed whole, I will this decision to be as enticed by the abyss as my panic is.

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Craving quiet

I drag my leaden limbs toward that which I want most.

To sit in the soft light of quiet.

Devoid of the itch to get away.

Steady in between being awake and pleasantly tired.

I could exist only here, allowing time to warp outside of this space.

Holding and being held by an encompassing embrace of the lightest touch.

I wish to stay here.

Breathing steady as my head lightens itself of incessant natures mistaken for norm.

Do not join me in this time of suspension.

Keep your footsteps and inquiries quite to yourself for a time.

I am relieving myself of the task of interest.

It is time to indulge in a heart heavy with satisfaction.

For I have found this quiet, the softness I crave constantly.

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Willing silent suspension

Stealing a moment of quiet before like minded footsteps find this beautiful space.

It’s a pleasure to be alone, when loneliness isn’t peeking around the corner.

Surrounded by a gluttony of detail which never conceived of my existence. Yet it still manages to cater only to me in this suspension of time.

I hold my breath willing my ears not to hear the sound of company too soon.

Though my legs are leaden willing time to stretch a bit longer, I will them to move.

Even if only to give the chance of this moment to the next wandering footsteps.

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The natural order of chaos

Lose your mind.
Find your place.
Let the chaos breed.

Disintegrate any notion of control.
Watch as your toes bleed from the tightrope you walked.
So terrified of being consumed by doubt, resolved to hide honesty from reflection.
How wasted your time must feel knowing the choice to strain was yours.

Feel order play tricks on your sanity. 

There is no control.
Illusions once shattered will always remain in shambles.
Cut your hands gripping the loss if the pain will bring comfort.

The stability you knew was tentative will still quake as your feet fall.
Give way to the tilt and know a truer, more terrifying reality.

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Ready to leave

One foot watching the doorway, the other counting the exits. 

I catalog the words you’ve said, listening for confirmation of personal doubts. 

This you could be anyone, as it’s an approach…a guiding line for my interactions with every “you” that could ever be. 

Any existence that finds its way to a sticking point in my orbit is subject to these hesitancies. 

I’m beginning to notice a spasm in the crick of my neck from keeping an eye out for signs I’ll be left. 

The marks in my hand from holding on to hyper-independence are growing more permanent. 

Those little crescents resist the display of fear. 

I wouldn’t want to give way to the looming doubt which has discarded my shadow for a much larger version of itself. 

Can one build muscle from being unable to relax? I wonder if that’s what this soreness is all over my body. 

I’m told I hold myself with confidence. 

I always say it’s actually chaos that has become so overwhelming it began organizing and has now taken over my will for its own. 

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When I look too long

Sometimes I want to ask out loud, does the way the sun blinds you when you walk back inside to artificial lighting ever make you wonder what it would be like not to see defining features. 

What if I couldn’t notice the chips in my nails, the food stuck on a spoon I delayed putting in the dishwasher? 

What if the marks on my arm that make my skin red with too much sunlight just looked like the fuzzy blue of after sun sight?

Maybe it pays not to notice so many little things in need of perfecting. 

Perhaps rigidity of form has less of a place among our self-evaluations than we like to think. 

It’s possible the days would still pass, and my chest would still rise and fall even if I never noticed how well my weight fit in with the ideal, I imagine I should be striving for. 

It may even be that our hearts would beat normally if we didn’t have a name for false imperfections, despite its normality…like cellulite. 

To think, our veins could still have blood running through them if our hair looked different from each other. 

Imagine how we’d live to see the day if the different colors in our skin didn’t require products to make it more uniform. 

How long do you think it takes each artist to see the blues, purples, reds, and greens in skin? 

When I stand in front of a work that didn’t blend the different dimensions and hues that make up a face, I’m in awe of the industry that tries to keep these mosaics away from their rightful place. 

A spot that questions the steps we take to remove in the name of refinement. 

The oils in my skin when they show could be painted and I would admire the stroke. 

Yet when they’re captured in a photograph, I take note of all the things wrong. 

I want to know who is responsible for this discrepancy. 

Is it the hand that chose the colors, picked out the stroke, and took time to care for my details? 

Is that why I admire the work…how would I manage to go to comparison war with myself if I saw a painting of my own face next to another? 

I don’t think I could manage anything save for admiration of differences.

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When October Leaves

There is this sensation at this time of year, near the end of it.

The leaves are slowly changing, it starts getting cold with little to no sign of warmth.

Everything is rushing to be somewhere, myself included.

The end of the year is in sight, so we cram it full of things we imagine deadlines exist for.

The difference is this year, I’m quiet inside.
This understanding of time I gripped so hard has thankfully slipped right past me.

I’m unbothered by its passing, not unmoored by penning tasks to a list.

My walks in the morning are allowed to take as long or short as I can manage.

Days of the week are only important when I’m tapped back into the world of deadlines.

I’m slowly unraveling time and the constriction I forced it to wrap me in.
No longer finding safety and security in the dependability of my productivity.

I lounge with grace and sink into the wealth of empty afternoons and evenings.

Sometimes I’m visited by merchants wishing to trade time for wealth.
As pleasant as their pitches are, I continue to be pleased at my own resistance.

I manage my time around the warmth of not needing an escape.

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Watching Myself

I’m growing skeptical of the methods I employ to romanticize my life.

I can hardly decipher between what has been sold to me, and what I picked out for myself.

I’m unsure if habits are adaptations to veiled criticisms,
my desire to be loved above another,
to create a pedestal for myself.
Knowing full well I’m itchy with regret each time I reach a new height.

Is the single serving of honey I choose now because you took yours with one while I formerly opted for two?
My taste changed when there was enough distance not to hope for a moment of time over tea.

How quickly I move to make alterations, stunned into my own silence by those who are unwavering, unbothered by their preferences.
It is the small choices littered throughout the day I keep a log of comparisons of.

I embody unflinching confidence in moments of big decisions making, unaware I’ve done something bold…there I am surefooted.
I will uproot myself without a second thought

But I hesitate into silence when asked minor preferences…preferring to hear the room out before allowing myself the space I’ve been asked to occupy.

I am comfortable shrinking, a habit I have a friend in even when there is no one to witness a difference.

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