Blueberry Panic
October will cure me
- Jan 5, 2025
- 1,285
The days have all blurred into one colorless smear.You wake, not because you want to, but because the body still remembers how. You move through the same motions: breathe, ache, repeat. It's strange how a life can keep going long after it's emptied of all meaning and purpose.
People used to be a warmth once. Now they're lessons written in the back of my mind. Lovers with shaking hands, promises that spoiled in the air. They said forever like it mean't something. Some vanished, some kill themselves, and you stopped trying to tell the difference. You keep their words folded somewhere deep, unreadable now, brittle from being opened too many times.
There's a storm in you that never learned how to control,it just rages on as you sit inside it sipping on a cup of coffee. Some days you are kind, some days you are chaos, and most days you're both at once. No one tells you how exhausting it is to feel everything and nothing in the same breath. You learn to keep your voice steady while the inside burns and freezes at once.
Memories return like stray animals. You feed them silence. You've been touched by cruelty that never apologized, carved open by people who pretended not to see the blood. The body remembers what the mind buries; it flinches at shadows that look like people. You tell yourself it's over, but the echoes disagree.
The world outside never fit. The streets feel hostile, the air too sharp. You exist in a place that treats your truth like an inconvenience, surrounded by faces that mistake you for something to fix. Even family can cut deeper than strangers, especially when they use love as a blade.
You dream of escape but the math never works. No car, no money, no place waiting. You've lost count of how many times you started over. The calendar mocks you—another month, another failure to disappear. You make peace with small things: the hum of an old fan, the momentary quiet at 3 a.m., the single light that refuses to die.
You stopped looking for change. It doesn't come. The world keeps turning in the same broken rhythm, people keep talking about hope like it's a currency you can still afford. But there's no grand shift, no sunrise worth waiting for. Just endurance. The slow, reluctant act of staying.
You exist now like a ghost tethered to breath. Not out of faith or courage, but because stopping would require more effort than continuing. Maybe that's all survival is...momentum without reason. You've made peace with the stillness. The kind that isn't healing, just acceptance.
There's no redemption here, no transformation. Only the quiet understanding that life will not get better, and somehow you go on anyway. Because that's what it means to be human...to rot beautifully, to hurt endlessly, and to keep existing long after the story should have ended.
There's nothing left to chase, nothing left to fix. You start to grieve, not for others this time, but for yourself. For the person who kept trying. For the body that absorbed every bruise and still reached for light.
You sit with your own absence, and it feels almost holy. The mourning isn't loud...it's slow, patient, inevitable. You imagine laying your past self down somewhere soft ...not to erase her, but to let her finally rest. All her panic, her reaching, her shaking hands, her screaming heart ...all of it deserves silence now.
You whisper your own name like an apology. The kind said to no one, but mean't for everything.
And in that moment, you're not gone ... just lighter... no more fighting, no more arguments, ... no more holding on just learning to finally let go.
--- Hela aka "Blueberry Panic"
People used to be a warmth once. Now they're lessons written in the back of my mind. Lovers with shaking hands, promises that spoiled in the air. They said forever like it mean't something. Some vanished, some kill themselves, and you stopped trying to tell the difference. You keep their words folded somewhere deep, unreadable now, brittle from being opened too many times.
There's a storm in you that never learned how to control,it just rages on as you sit inside it sipping on a cup of coffee. Some days you are kind, some days you are chaos, and most days you're both at once. No one tells you how exhausting it is to feel everything and nothing in the same breath. You learn to keep your voice steady while the inside burns and freezes at once.
Memories return like stray animals. You feed them silence. You've been touched by cruelty that never apologized, carved open by people who pretended not to see the blood. The body remembers what the mind buries; it flinches at shadows that look like people. You tell yourself it's over, but the echoes disagree.
The world outside never fit. The streets feel hostile, the air too sharp. You exist in a place that treats your truth like an inconvenience, surrounded by faces that mistake you for something to fix. Even family can cut deeper than strangers, especially when they use love as a blade.
You dream of escape but the math never works. No car, no money, no place waiting. You've lost count of how many times you started over. The calendar mocks you—another month, another failure to disappear. You make peace with small things: the hum of an old fan, the momentary quiet at 3 a.m., the single light that refuses to die.
You stopped looking for change. It doesn't come. The world keeps turning in the same broken rhythm, people keep talking about hope like it's a currency you can still afford. But there's no grand shift, no sunrise worth waiting for. Just endurance. The slow, reluctant act of staying.
You exist now like a ghost tethered to breath. Not out of faith or courage, but because stopping would require more effort than continuing. Maybe that's all survival is...momentum without reason. You've made peace with the stillness. The kind that isn't healing, just acceptance.
There's no redemption here, no transformation. Only the quiet understanding that life will not get better, and somehow you go on anyway. Because that's what it means to be human...to rot beautifully, to hurt endlessly, and to keep existing long after the story should have ended.
There's nothing left to chase, nothing left to fix. You start to grieve, not for others this time, but for yourself. For the person who kept trying. For the body that absorbed every bruise and still reached for light.
You sit with your own absence, and it feels almost holy. The mourning isn't loud...it's slow, patient, inevitable. You imagine laying your past self down somewhere soft ...not to erase her, but to let her finally rest. All her panic, her reaching, her shaking hands, her screaming heart ...all of it deserves silence now.
You whisper your own name like an apology. The kind said to no one, but mean't for everything.
And in that moment, you're not gone ... just lighter... no more fighting, no more arguments, ... no more holding on just learning to finally let go.
--- Hela aka "Blueberry Panic"
