was it you that said, how long?

I was walking home today with an iced dirty chai in my hand and there was just the tiniest hint of a late summer breeze in the air and for the first time in a really long time it seemed like breathing might actually be worth it.

Inventory, self, of the twenty-ninth of August:

Short red hair, long considered.

Old Navy jeans, because I am too tired to be creative about fashion, size sixteen.

This button-up from the “men’s section” of Target. Fuck your rules and double-fuck slim fits.

A brain, recently mostly comprised of oatmeal and terror. A heart, frantic and fractured and desperate to swallow anything but sadness.

The aforementioned iced dirty chai. Medium, whole milk, I am not cool.

Earbuds in my ear, Kansas fucking blaring:

I heard the men saying something
The captains tell they pay you well
And they say they need sailing men to

Show the way and leave today
Was it you that said, how long?
How long?

How long?

How long does it take to return to yourself? How much longer until I gently knock upon the door of my own fucking sternum and request entry? Hi, it’s me again, I brought muffins, can we be cool yet?

Can we just be fucking cool yet?

There is still the voice in my head that catalogues my failures: not good enough for grad school, not good enough for this job or that play, not good enough for you.

I think tomorrow is the day, for no other reason than the forecast is only cloudy. I want tomorrow to be the day. I am ready to breathe and sip iced chais and put one foot in front of the other day and move back toward myself, whoever they are, whoever they want to be next.

My dad suggested I write it all down and burn it in the front yard before I go for my First Run Again. (He bought me new shoes, I have no excuse.)

I’m not burning anything, mostly because I can’t really figure out the safest logistics. But I guess tomorrow I have to actually, purposefully, intentionally: let. it. all. go.

I release you from the prison of my grief. I will stop watering this garden of my own perceived sins. I didn’t do anything wrong but be a person. I won’t make the same mistakes again: I will make newer, more thoughtful ones, and that is as much as I can guarantee.

There’s Dragon Con this weekend, which feels completely fucking bonkers, but dammit if I’m not ready to sip a Mai Tai and use my hands too much while talking about Star Wars and, if you are there, I hope you have a nice time.

They say the sea turns so dark that
You know it’s time, you see the sign
They say the point demons guard is
An ocean grave for all the brave
Was it you that said, how long, how long
How long to the point of no return?

(I know it’s time.)

How long?

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

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