the pond is shallow
the water is murky

i can't see my reflection
the water keeps its ripples
because every time i see
my face i want to
cry loudly because i am
just as thin as water
just as shapeless and unassuming

the water is murky

because my shoes are muddy
and i keep kicking up

rocks

Bones are constricting
My feet stuck to the ground
My ribs caging a heart that wants
To be found
Words are limiting
Thoughts aching to come out
I am a prison
Of my own making
Of my choosing

My body is a cage.

And to be honest
I don't even know,
Why?

The flesh I reside in,
it is my sanctuary,
it is my prison.
The source of my sadness,
the river from which the darkness flows.

Veins of doubt entangle my being,
whispers of malice dance in my mind,
they suffocate me.
Creeping into every crevice of my skin,
deep, deep, reaching into the core of my soul.

My existence is futile, fleeting,
as quick as the smoke of candle snuffed out,
a ghost.
My touch on this plane a mere echo,
a drop falling from leaf, fading from sight.

surrealism
a reality that is augmented, in some way bizarre
out of place but comprehensible
momentarily you're laughing in a chapter of a novel,
sipping wine in a short film,
dancing with your loved one through your imagination
somehow you see the world from such a distance, from the outside
and
in that split second of 'what the hell am I doing'

you just have to smile and move on.

i was drowning in love
        lost in your sight
        the suffocation was
        questionably satisfying

i felt:
        safe.

        calm.

        new.

but in this newfound love,
        emerged a feeling of doubt

"are you the one?"

As a child, I used to believe love didn't exist
Because if love was real, my dad wouldn't have left my mom
If love was real, my dad would have visited us

Then I grew up and I wasn't sure I believed in God either,
Because if God was real, He wouldn't have made my mother sick
If God was real, why did He abandon me?

And if God was love and God didn't exist, then surely love didn't either.
They became supporting statements, a hypothesis to be tested.
And then I proved myself wrong by falling in love.
And maybe, just maybe, if love was real then so was God.

But the God I knew wasn't a merciful one and the God that answered my prayers took my love.
He bundled it up and gave it away, and maybe it isn't that God doesn't exist and neither does love, but that maybe, just maybe, I'm not meant to be loved.

You will come to [hope] in time
You will come to [trust] in time

You will come to [fall] in time
You will come to [jump] in time

You will come to [dance] in time
You will come to [march] in time

You will come to [believe] in time
You will come to [doubt] in time

You will come to [forgive] in time
You will come to [forget] in time

You will come to [keep] in time
You will come to [stay] in time

You will come to me

Let me set the scene.
I'm lying in bed, tissue box in close reach, trying to remember
what it was like to not be sick.

Switching between scribbling
in my diary and expressing
my thoughts and feelings in the margins of my new favourite book, trying
to write down and capture
every new understanding, new perspective,
all before I forget.
     And become the person I do not want to be, again.

I'm in a state of reflection and growth.
I'm in a constant battle with the idea of perfection.
I can now understand that self-awareness comes with the grave consequence
of self-realization.

Will I achieve self-actualization?
What does that look like?
Is it possible?
Am I worthy? After everything I've witnessed, thought, felt, and done.
Who determines that worth? Is it me, you, them, or him?

So, Billie Eilish's "No Time to Die"
and Lana Del Rey's "Young & Beautiful" loop
in the background, making everything that much more profound.

I zone out - thinking about the reality of having an old, tortured
yet romantic soul
in an era filled with superficiality.

I regain focus - thinking about my longing for summer,
a desire created from its association with love. See, once October hits I hibernate looking for comfort in a mate.
A mate who happens to be a good talker
but understands me.
Because that's all I have the energy for
until it's summer again.
See, in the summer I can love again.
Love him. Love life.
Love myself.
As I typed 'myself' I repeatedly misspelled it,
as if it couldn't be true.

Writing this I fill up on self doubt
wondering if I will ever gain the courage
to share myself with them
Completely.
I get frustrated,
thinking about how to tell my truth
in a lighthearted manner.

Again, my mind goes to summer
spending time with my family and friends
and finally swimming in the salt water again.
I have always been such a show-off
About how good I was at treading water
my whole life.
I grew up a quick sprint to the water
during a few points of my life.
And now I constantly long
for those destinations and many more.
Destinations where I'm a sprint away from treading water again.    
     Cause otherwise I'm drowning.

Simultaneously identifying with the character drowning and the character making the waves.
What are we all really drowning in?
In self-doubt?
   Guilt?
     Shame?    
                       Loneliness?

I apologize,                                         (sometimes)
sometimes when the unanswered questions
begin to form,
it's hard to snap back into reality.
The reality that the cruel history of our world
repeats itself,
wearing a new facade
each slimmer!
and shinier! then the next.
I play my part in the charade
just like everybody else.

Will I continue to neglect myself to do so?
When I'm meant to be healing.
Will I achieve this seemingly artificial idea of peace with oneself?
When I do nothing but criticize myself.  
Will I ever forgive myself for the
person I used to be?
Put her on the shelf next to the little girl with
enough sparkle in her eye
to make even Toronto feel bright?

Well, I'll just lie here
fantasizing?
       Romanticizing?
                     Idealizing?
Until that day comes.

Be kind,
Evangeline.