It’s still dark outside. I spent an hour tossing and turning about unimportant shit and then my mind caught up to reality and here we are. Dystopia is no longer a Netflix diversion, it is my newsfeed daily. My will to bright-side has been lost to the night.
Time is speeding up, but sometimes it moves slow enough that I can see the wreckage all around me/us… damage of our own choosing. How can this be?
I knew humans could be ugly, but I didn’t know it would feel this way… like an assault to the senses, the obliteration of care and concern, a nauseating gut punch landed on someone else’s body. Not my body. I have been spared. For now.
Hope is there. Buried alive before dawn. She will rise again with the sun, but she needs to sleep for now. There is no other way for her to rebuild the will to fight another day.
Sleeping through the night is her saving grace, perhaps the only grace that can be found right now. As people are being deliberately disappeared, deprived, and silenced… the stories that once soothed me no longer land in my bones.
You are more than welcome to your god, but don’t force his will on me. Or if you fancy the femme version, tell her I’m not interested in another makeover. I used to wear spiritual platitudes in the same way that I always wore a bra, to prop things up for appearances. To keep my body from falling out of favor.
But fuck it, gravity can have me now.
Perimenopause is a scathing initiation, burning away the pretense of me. All that’s left is a self I’m still getting to know. She is less popular and pretty and she’s fierce with a purposelessness I still struggle to understand. I desperately want to be liked/safe but she is no longer concerned with such things and sometimes she scares the shit out of me.
The sun will be up soon and I’ll surely find the light again but I’m going to leave this here because its okay to feel around for other people in the dark.
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