you are lying on your back in a bed 5,487 miles away from home. there are geckos trilling from the corridors and the trees cast shadows in the room above the door, the air con whirs and you shift, sticky, skin sweating against starched cotton sheets too hot, too humid, too much
everything is too much, but at least it’s too much here instead of too much back there; you visit temples, vast and golden in their glory, and white and intricate in their purity; ocher where the sun has kissed blessings upon their pillars, and pretend that you too are subjected to the numinous nature of sanctums and their spirits and pray they don’t notice that the awe in their eyes isn’t reflected in yours, hope they don’t sense that you are not here to heal, only to stretch old wounds into splitting open anew
you are ruining your life
you are ruining your life somewhere beautiful that’s been the making of so many others’ lives but you always strived to be different, never recognising that agony, despair, self-deprecation, self-victimisation, suffering—they’re the most common connecting factors between all humans you are the same as the other six billion people aching and crying and spitting anger in their sorrow, blind to the one billion who’re trying to make the world a better place so the rest of you might smile a little more often.
one of the geckos scurries across the ceiling and you flinch, a moment of fear for the unknown before you settle once more and simply watch his little legs fidget his body to freedom through the slats of your propped open window. inside your chest there’s a moment of heavy silence as your heart grapples for a connection between you and that little creature both small little things striving to survive in a world too large, too bright, too crowded yet too empty chasing freedom like a child chases a dream.
the moment passes. your heart regains pace and your mind whirs with the lonely static of too much me time
you are ruining your life not realising you’re weaker to suffer than you’d be if you tried to heal