This hour bears the weight of every choice I have ever made and I feel like pointing a cold finger at myself for the last few months or years maybe. I keep getting distracted.
The stench of regrets sings
Lullaby to my aging bones
I crave a time
When the past
Didn't know my sins or name
But I can't flee
The imperfections that assembled
Who I am.
The gift of writing keeps giving but the endless war in this anxiety pit that I call my mind, will not allow words to bloom peacefully here leave alone find a way to build a reliable shrine for my scribe to go to.
Instead, they bleed all over everything.
I have tried to forge an altar to sacrifice my perfectionist but they rigged a comfort zone where procrastination sits in the lobby to condition my fatigued mind to wait for what I create to make sense enough to my inner critic while constantly combating the golden rule of perfecting the art of healing through writing.
I should write everything. And I mean everything. But sadly, I keep getting in bed with shame. With the need to want to wait for perfectly groomed moments. With the urge to want to over-explain something I wrote/write.
And writing is mysterious or I think it should be.
On the other hand, therapy is expensive and I have no other way of grounding my spirit in this lower middle-class apartment jungle. Oh, and the cost that comes with affording it is among the reasons I can't make time for poetry plus even the 'free' air I breathe is heavily polluted.
What was I saying?
I am saying my present is harder because I chose an easier one yesterday yes but I am not overlooking what it takes to run my small house and family alone though I think I could have loaded the punch I used to take it down with a bit more heat.
You see, I am tied to a routine that makes me often wonder where the time went or goes. Between my bedroom floor, my small kitchen, and the twin balconies that face East gathering dust from the hood street that leads to our gate, a day of housework fades away.
I cook. My youngest and a beautiful soul that found a home in our lives help with ensuring the kitchen is clean in turns. But when you add the hustle that is keeping us afloat currently, going to the market, laundry, and the regenerating duties and chores that come with maintaining a home, I get lost in the maze.
I then distance myself from this community and writing but keep on snacking on poetry and short reads. The nourishing bit helps my ever-learning side but the bottling up of words suffocates my then-convicted scribe.
Nothing helps not even crying about it.
Which is why this hour feels like a good time to fix my future. It feels like me writing about anything and everything is approved of too. Like I don't have to choose the best way to say life is being unfair nor is it a crime to celebrate waking up today. I feel like on a time like this next week or next month, however long it takes to embody growth in whichever form it takes, I'll thank myself that I crawled my way back here.
wambuku w.