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Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts are important, and most often my answer is no. Too many times I write out words only to cross them out or hit backspace, they aren’t worth adding to the noise of the world.

Other times, like this one right now, I’m sitting with my thoughts, cradling the same one for hours. I think I started around 2 p.m. It is 11 p.m. now. Nine whole hours with the same thoughts rattling around my brain, like a grain of rice in a saltshaker, not coming out, but not staying quiet either.

The thought is a simple one, or a complex one, depending on how one looks at it.

What are we the products of?

I often am in a place where I hear people advising one another, and sometimes I find it humorous. While other times I sober up, remembering that the one who said it was serious about it. They meant every word they said, every line they wrote.

It’s little things like ‘You shouldn’t feel this way’ ‘It doesn’t matter that it happened to you, it happens to a lot of people’ ‘Just have faith. It was all for a reason.’

There’s more but I don’t want to write it out otherwise I’d be upset.

And I wonder

And wonder

How dismissed one must have been, going through their days, to start to believe it to be true, and to share the same with others, as if forgetting the pain being on the receiving end had caused them.

But cruelty can breed cruelty too. Humans are an interesting species that way. Not all persons live to make the world easier for the ones who came after. Some use their own experiencing and have others live it too. They forget though, that the mind plays tricks, the bad is more vivid, more clear, worse than it was. Or the other way around. That it was necessary, or something that moulded them, something integral, and there’s the gratitude. As if the clay should thank the hammer for rapping against to test. Cracks make way for gold.

But that is for one place. What about the others?

What is the life of the spider, if not a result of scurrying away to survive. Stretching across windows instead of collecting dew in forests and grasslands.

Is it the desert that makes the cacti, or the cacti that make the desert. Would you call a pool of sand one, if I planted a cactus in it.

What if it bloomed?

This doesn’t make sense, I know. The metaphors don’t match. The stories don’t flow.

And yet, and yet we retell the same adages

That hurt us so.

Are you listening?

Have you heard?

Would you be your own friend

If these were the words served

On a platter

Decked in gold

What use is a square of gauze

When the blood’s already flooded the floor.

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My sadness is like a weight on my chest. A blanket folded onto itself multiple times. It's not rock, pressing down in the centre. It's a layer being laid over my sternum, covering my lungs and smothering my breaths, making it hard to draw a whole one in.

But my sadness is not my panic. It doesn't cause it either. My panic is the crawl over my neck, wanting me to scratch it away. It is the buzz that makes me bounce my legs and fidget with whatever I get my hands on.

And my trauma is the shadow that looms over it all, or under it all. Stretching miles one day and inches the next. But always there. There is no noon to shun it, even temporarily.

I hate that you see the blanket but not the scratches. And you see the shadows of my fingers, playing against the light, but not the shadows of my torso, translucent in its ravished state. I hate that you make me feel like my shadow is a mere grey, when it is pitch black to me.

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Yes that's a ring box in his hand

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