Writing I hope other's feel they can relate to.
So, I won't lie. I'm not a tumblr person. I only have this account to follow a few artists and even then; i hardly use this platform. But- considering i don't want what I'm going to post to be some front liner on my main platforms, i figured why not here where I'm hardly active. The likelihood of anyone seeing it is pretty low, and even if it does come across people's feeds- it will likely be minimal. On the very off chance it somehow makes waves- i at least have solace in knowing that tumblr is made up of a menagerie of people and that maybe this hit someone's feed that it resonates with....if they even read down this far. lets be honest this little prelude in an of itself will have people scrolling before they get to the point xD. no biggie, its our daily life at this point. For those who actually kept reading; what's this post actually about? Well, A while back I wrote a vent piece. Maybe its just me but i thought it was pretty good, yea i'm no perfect author and there are a slew of grammatical errors. I still think it might resonate with people, or maybe its just a sprinkle of the "I want validation- i want to be seen" that has been implanted in me from years of not just being an actual artist but we all know we're hoe's for validation. look me in my peepers and say we aren't. PFFF So- Here it is: "Trickling Black Sand"
I feel like a walking contradiction. One where the mind is abuzz and empty all at once. Where I want to be the best and worst version of myself all at the same time- and neither feels fulfilled. I feel like I don't have the room to judge, to talk and to reach out. Like the words I wish to speak get caught, stuck, shredded on fragmented glass and glue on the journey through my throat; only to get shoved right back to the mind and echoed like a bouncing ball on the walls. The words fate only doomed to repeat the journey.
There is all sorts of noise, food, anxiety, the at times staggering lack of thoughts, the sudden surge of never-ending thought, the hate in myself when having a particularly bad day and how the shape and hang of my stomach feels 30 pounds heavier. When clothing never fits right and feels foreign on my skin and like basically nothing was meant to be worn that day. The noise of feeling like an outcast yet continuously sought after for the only thing “redeeming quality” others seem to notice I am quite capable of providing; comfort. Forced to be a therapist, “Tricked” into being someone’s Mother-hen with promises of equal friendship- slowly forced to hate something that comes so natural to me yet leads me to be crushed by everyone's steel toed boot. The agony, the silent internal screaming of hating that I've absolutely grown to utterly despise people as much as I love them deep down. The piercing ring of constant silence and cacophony all at different times- sometimes converging and making me feel like a fake, like a liar, like there's nothing that will ever work and fit like a puzzle piece.
There's a noise in the back of my mind that stays locked in a safe. Forcibly forgotten and barricaded behind wall after wall in another safe. Filled with thoughts, memories, feelings, more prattling. “I'm not good enough”, “you’re a leech”, “Manipulator”, “lazy”, “you lie to others for your own comfort because you're so scared, you filthy, unworthy woman.”, and so many more. All variations of self hate, hate planted by others and experiences all together in a burning ball of loathing.
A noise so loud screaming to eat the feelings to submission, to keep emotion shut off whenever possible- only let the “appropriate ones through”, keep them shut off so long that it feels like the natural state of being. A noise that bangs against the walls screaming for the easy way out of all my problems being money I'll never see. “The lottery”, money that would make some of my largest problems disappear, money that would let me take care of those I love in the “motherly” way I was forced to hate after being psychologically beaten for all these years. Money that would let me live how I want, when I want, with the ones and help I want.
All that discordance- yet for half of it my mind is silent until a match is lit and tossed onto the gunpowder and set ablaze, and just as quick as the blaze ignites; it pitters out just as quickly. All for the cycle of trickling black sand to start again behind every barricade and safe door. All for the Black sand to inevitably, eventually be lit once more- releasing all the noise again.
