sleepyg614
New Member
- Aug 30, 2023
- 4
I wake up with an exit sign
flickering somewhere behind my eyes.
Not yet a plan.
Not quite a promise.
Just a thought that says,
"There is a door."
It doesn't shout.
It hums.
Low voltage.
Constant.
Like a refrigerator in the next room
that never lets you forget it's there.
I carry it through grocery aisles,
through laughter,
through good news,
through the weight of my dog asleep on my chest.
Even joy doesn't evict it.
It just learns to sit quietly in the corner.
People think fantasies are wishes.
They aren't always.
Sometimes they're just
mental windows cracked open
so the room doesn't suffocate.
I don't dream of my heart stopping
because I hate life.
I dream of rest.
Of silence.
Of a mind that stops interrogating itself
every minute of the day.
The thoughts arrive uninvited,
leave without ceremony,
and come back again tomorrow
just like the sun.
Like gravity.
Like a tide that never asks
whether I'm tired of swimming.
I am.
And still,
I stay.
Not heroically.
Not bravely.
I stay in small ways.
I stay because of soft fur and kind eyes.
Because my dog and cat would wonder forever.
Because of unfinished sentences.
Because something in me keeps saying,
not today.
If this is what survival looks like,
then it is quieter than people imagine.
It is not triumph.
It is endurance.
It is choosing to exist
with a thought that never leaves
and hoping to befriend it.
I live with the idea of death
the way people live with chronic pain -
not because I want it,
but because it's there,
and I am still learning
how to carry it
without letting it carry me.
But oh, how I'm tired of learning.
flickering somewhere behind my eyes.
Not yet a plan.
Not quite a promise.
Just a thought that says,
"There is a door."
It doesn't shout.
It hums.
Low voltage.
Constant.
Like a refrigerator in the next room
that never lets you forget it's there.
I carry it through grocery aisles,
through laughter,
through good news,
through the weight of my dog asleep on my chest.
Even joy doesn't evict it.
It just learns to sit quietly in the corner.
People think fantasies are wishes.
They aren't always.
Sometimes they're just
mental windows cracked open
so the room doesn't suffocate.
I don't dream of my heart stopping
because I hate life.
I dream of rest.
Of silence.
Of a mind that stops interrogating itself
every minute of the day.
The thoughts arrive uninvited,
leave without ceremony,
and come back again tomorrow
just like the sun.
Like gravity.
Like a tide that never asks
whether I'm tired of swimming.
I am.
And still,
I stay.
Not heroically.
Not bravely.
I stay in small ways.
I stay because of soft fur and kind eyes.
Because my dog and cat would wonder forever.
Because of unfinished sentences.
Because something in me keeps saying,
not today.
If this is what survival looks like,
then it is quieter than people imagine.
It is not triumph.
It is endurance.
It is choosing to exist
with a thought that never leaves
and hoping to befriend it.
I live with the idea of death
the way people live with chronic pain -
not because I want it,
but because it's there,
and I am still learning
how to carry it
without letting it carry me.
But oh, how I'm tired of learning.