Graveyards are so much more than a final resting place
They are a collection of memories, shattered dreams, and half forgotten hopes.
A collection of consciousness laying underneath a curated lawn.
Perhaps that’s why, on the clearest day, a breeze always blows
It’s the whispered conversation of souls
In the spiraling modernity of a wired and connected world the influencers peer out of their square boxes. Against a pink or beige or golden background, they all share the same message.
Self-care. A modern woman practices a self-care routine.
The influencer will preach with the utmost sincerity. She is a trend setting prophet, and her bible is whatever pastel colored bottle has paid enough to grace her screen today.
The modern woman, her hair in a bun that’s perched atop her head, or in a day old sweatshirt that smells faintly of infant piss or vomit (or both) nods.
Self-care. She must find herself a self care routine.
But time is fleeting. How can one practice self care in the midst of a thousand daily chores that triple the minute one gets missed? Especially if the modern woman is expected to work, cook, clean, and perfectly parent at every god-damn minute of every single day.
Modernity is a dream
A beautiful one, sold in 10 second chunks of neutral colored smiles.
In reality, it’s profits for clicks. The capitalization of consumption.
And yet, still we scroll.
For self-care purposes, of course.
My dear,
You were never meant to pick up the pieces of a life cut too short.
It is the cruelty of existence that requires you to soldier on. It is not God’s will, it is not fate. It is…happenstance. And you have met it with wide eyed courage.
You must feel forgotten. Overlooked and overwhelmed. Angry at the world or God or the Universe for leaving you behind.
Guilty for your anger. Guilty for your rage. Guilty for all the roiling emotions that ebb and flow with the circadian rhythm of the day.
Because you’re the one who stayed.
My dear, I see you. I see your youth. I see your bright soul alight with childish wonder.
I see how it’s dimmed now that you can no longer explore the vast expanse of this incandescent world with the man you love.
You’re a changeling. Alone in the bizarre shadow called Earth now stripped of light.
But please remember…
Grief is not attached to morality.
Grief simply is.
You will feel knives of anger, shards of hatred, and moments of spite. You will feel sparks of joy, bubbles of love, and waves of compassion. And all this will barrage you in staccato rhymes of confusion.
Because you were left behind.
But my dear, you are not forgotten. Though it may seem that way.
You were left behind. But we are by your side.
She was born in the quiet hush of a snowstorm. Fifteen years later, there’s nothing quiet about her.
She’s as fierce as a tsunami and loud as a tornado.
Snow shrinks before the spring, and she, she is the raging river that’s left behind.
It’s easy to think
I’m abstract terms about “struggle”
But much harder
When your child is hundreds of miles away
And crying on the phone
Loneliness
It’s a feeling we’re all familiar with
But have you heard
Of lonely satisfaction?
It’s the feeling of newly unwrapped presents
The chill of first snow
The scent of your lovers sweatshirt
Found, tossed aside, in the corner of your house.
Lonely satisfaction is
Coming home from vacation
Or 501 pm on a Friday
It’s things accomplished
But a future
Not yet materialized.
In America
Kids are always the battle ground
What they read
What we teach them
How we raise them
Yet in our hubris
We allowed 8 million of them
To be stricken with grief
You see
We were too busy arguing
To care about the consequence
Silhouetted trees
Black against a neon sky
Sway in a cool breeze
Summer is waning
Which heightens the nostalgia
Of teen years long passed.
I stare at the screen
My eyes crossing, contacts dry
As I try to paint
Using only words
Some words are sharp, some pointy
Others are vivid
Like a 1972 VW
Others are dull and sticky
Like hour old chewing gum
What’s true about words as art
Is there are thousands
And if they connect just right,
They create not just art, but action
And drama that invokes real emotion
Yet somehow writing is also…
Isolating
Because the art is real
But invisible
We drink our coffee
Skid into our parking spot
Late, by two minutes
The day is a drudge
Much the same as yesterday,
As will be tomorrow
Oblivious to
The obliteration of
An entire culture
That’s what we call progress
Hipstory 