dharmajustin

I’m afraid to admit how tough it is—

there’s a loneliness in the air, a deep gutting feeling that I have been abandoned.

I’m afraid of living my entire life in survival, in this state of being that never fully lives.

anxiety, depression; they circle me like sharks, and I’m alone and I’m alone and I’m alone and this ocean wide is my own mess.

do we just come premade this way?

some never experience this feeling, some find love and it never lets go of them, and some do not find themselves stuck so frequently.

there is a fog, distant but looming, holding its hands between me and the sun.

and then you can’t get out, and then you can’t get out, and then you can’t get out

because you’ll exhaust yourself before you get ahead of it, or you won’t be ready, or you’ll feel undeserving

and then you can’t look out for yourself—it’s too expensive—healthcare on a payment plan, savings drained, living alone again.

how do we live here? I didn’t get instructions; I was so good at putting things together step by step when I was young. . .

and for some reason I can’t let that go, drowning in past mistakes, unspoken love, too bad, too late.

and then you can’t move on, and then you can’t move on, and then you can’t move on

because you’ll never be the same again; it broke your heart and you can’t afford a new one, untouched by safety for far too long, no space, nothing healthy.

but you want it so badly, though you can’t have it—face pressed to the glass as the warmth spreads in from the tip of your nose before quickly dissipating into the cold beyond.

I’ve lost direction; am I wet or am I shopping? the metaphors bleed down the walls as I compare everything I am to literally anything else.

will I look back on this and wonder why I felt this way? cycles circle and spiral down, spine twisted under neck, heart always racing, constant wreck.

will I forget?

one day I will be dead, either by choice or by time, and I only wish to live a life of less constant stress.

and I’m so afraid of death. it haunts me. we all go there one day, no way around it. people I loved have already left, and I’ll never see them again.

not enough time, too many knots in the ropes to untie. . .

and then you’re gone. and it never happened. and it doesn’t matter. and in a hundred years, no one will know you ever were.

how do you do anything other than hide from the shrouded hands and dilute your mind with substance? drugs, drink, screens, and then you blink; it’s aaaaaall over.

and they’ve made it so unfair, the ones who have so much, the profiteers of labor and creation—if only we all had a nickel for every million they use against us.

it’s dark out, through every window, across every direction on the horizon, closing in like the walls will crush me over the course of several struggled decades.

should I even care?

should I have wasted less time, allocated better with my family and friends?

I suppose the only way to truly tell is by spending more of it, maybe a little more wisely as it tapers thin.

____________________

justin