We see the happy, happy is easier to see. It takes time to look behind to the vulnerable, the feelings, the human, the 'you are someone's child'. It takes time. And - patience. To sift through every trigger, every flash.
To guard every gaping wound that has just clotted just enough for us to function without leaking on ourselves, rouge tears on our psyche's flesh, macabre patterns, sacred in the geometry of the stories we tell. Ourselves. Others.
All in the name of function. All in the name of 'stay on the treadmill because that's what's needed, even though the iron shoes are worn out, and it would be helpful if there was a new soul spare because this one is worn out, threadbare'
Continuing to wear that threadbare as a fashion statement of strong, bold and 'REFUSE TO BREAK!!!' when the reality is, breakage happened long before it was even safe to do so, long before there was anyone to pick up the pieces, long long long before there was even glue to hold the broken pieces together. Dafuc do you even do when there's no glue?
A combination, a psycho-sociological concoction of tears, blood, laughter, spit, roll, sip, another rep. A potion of acknowledgement, 'shut it ego' and 'psst, #yourlifematters', become the resin that preserves the pain and renders it visible - yet, easier to deal with in solid form, it holds its own. It won't splash or stain clothes - who has time for extra laundry anyways right?
Wrong, there's never extra time, just enough time, to utilise, to do the difficult...until it run's out...when it runs out, the glue pot is empty...then come the tears, the song of regret from the soul, off-key and discordant, each tear, an exquisite diamond cut with the precision of pain, of regret, downpayment on another pot of glue...and so the cycle begins again...until it's complete innit. - Daisy's Granddaughter
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