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Collapsing & Crumbling

For a star to be born,
there is one thing that
must happen: a gaseous
nebula must collapse.

So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your
destruction.

This is your birth.

(Written by Noor Tagouri)

——————————————————–

I am collapsing and crumbling in all sorts of ways lately. Despair and angst and anger and depression have taken over most of my waking hours. But I am still holding on to the belief that this is all leading to a new birth, just as this poem says.

I moved to a new place by myself, separated from my husband. I knew this wouldn’t solve all my problems, but living together had become toxic for us both. If I narrow it down to the basics, not have my husband to blame, how do I live my life? What do I do with it? This is what I want to see.

The beginning was wonderful. I was optimistic, happy, ready to start this new chapter. But now, inertia and procrastination have taken over.

I am not ready to end this life though. This is my karma, and I am ready to face it.

Not. My. Destruction.

A. New. Birth.

A return to writing

I want to write again. To journal again. Vent out my random musings, thoughts, ideas, attempts at poetry and other such nonsense.

One thing depression is good for: a burst of creativity.

At least, that’s how my depressions begin. Sleepless nights, anger, despair, and a desire to be more active.

 

It’s madness, this life, this chaotic life.

 

Has anyone ever learned to stop wanting approval from their parents? To love and to not seek love in return? This is my current struggle.

I was always interested in poetry, but didn’t read e. e. cummings’ work until recently. Love it! He’s eccentric, unique, authentic, to-the-point, lyrical. “Humanity, i love you”, for example, shows his genius. Changing paragraphs in the middle of a sentence. Imagining a “soul” “dangling from a watch-chain”. Yes, we do pawn our intelligence. Yes, we do make poems in the lap of death. And cummings is the only one who sees the truth of our existence as it is.

Poets are the ultimate saviors of humanity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shops and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

Cold feet

You don’t have to tuck in your cold feet into your husband’s warm ones at night.

There are other options.

Wear warm socks.

Place a furry cat on top of your feet, make him comfortable, and wait till he curls up to take a nap.

Squeeze your toes into that fold behind your knee.

Entangle your feet in your blanket.

Heat a water bottle, and place it at the foot of the bed.

Turn on a vaporizer in the room.

Don’t ever think that you have only one choice.

Art

I am playing around with SoulCollage lately – as art therapy.

Will post some creations soon.

 

Back-&-Forth

Day treatment again?

Spiraling downward at home.

Depression.

Panic attacks.

Morning insomnia.

Sleep all day.

No showers.

No shampooes.

No cooking.

No leaving the house.

Two tears fell today.

Gettin worse worse worse.

Feelin shitty shitty shitty.

Trying homeopathy.

New therapist.

Cymbalta continues.

Lies lies lies.

Job?

How?

Gettin fat.

Husband frustrated & angry.

Hide under the blanket,

Let me sleep, forever.

Baby sleeps

Baby sleeps on my chest

whiskers brush my nose

his nose is half-buried on my cheek

he whistles as he breathes

he twitches, in his dreams?

I try not to move

he’s curled, tucked, covered, secure

Baby sleeps on my chest