If I go to sleep, there is the danger of waking up.
You told me to take care of my own feelings but it seems I’m not very good at it.
Today I turn 27.
I spent the first 8 minutes of the day folding freshly laundered clothes. At 00:12, my partner makes me a birthday hat from recycled paper and some crayons. On our way home from his gig last night I stared out the window of the car and thought about the person I’ve been, the person I am, and the person I’m becoming.
While I am trying to reclaim (and confront) the missing pieces of myself, pieces that have been sliced by and for others, I am reminded that "we find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows" (Gilbert).
27 is not a significant milestone, not anything special that needs commemoration or a big shindig with cliche giant gold number balloons. It’s not all-knowing, or set in its ways; it’s not sure of anything. It makes mistakes, and feels tired most of the time. It gets drunk, smokes too much, and dances when no one's watching. 27 has lost friends to death and to life. It has been mocked, persecuted, bullied, abused, violated, betrayed. It tries and fails, and tries again. 27 learns to hold life gently, and kindly. It learns to trust its intuition, and to take things less seriously. It learns to find the good in people even and especially when people are anything but, and to give more than it takes. It learns to "live the questions now" (Rilke). Because perhaps gradually, without noticing, it will live along some distant day into the answer.
There is no proof that I am still
Yes of course it hurts.
When I grow up, I want to be a cream puff.
I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday because it’s the only one with sleeves long enough to cover my emotional wreckage.