you can't put your arms around a memory

Dear God,

I've been waking up in the mornings, eyes still gummed shut; sore and sensitive, convincing myself that five minutes more will not make that much of a difference, chest heaving and I hear this voice inside me say, "Get up.", and I do.

It has been a really long week, and I'm still marveling over how so many things can change and happen over 7 days. How the loss of someone can bring a family together and how "I love you" may be over said and loosely littered in conversations but when said appropriately, could mean all the difference in the world. I cannot understand how people grow up and grow apart in a matter of days and how sometimes you could silently scream all the things you want to say to someone in hidden texts and twitter updates and they could never get it.

I romanticise everything I know.

I used to be able to fill this space with words, countless and overflowing, and sometime between then and now, I lost that. Nowadays I either feel silenced and speechless, and I don't know it yet but everything I feel inside is bubbling, like white hot liquid lava waiting to spill out. There are too many things I need to say but I can't. There are too many people I miss but they seem to be doing perfectly fine without me, and then my insecurities work up and I start to hate myself a little bit more.

As little kids we used to think that our blankets were protection shields, from the monsters under our beds, or the dark shadows that crept and loitered around the cabinets. Nothing could get to me once I had my blanket wrapped around me, mummifying me in its warmth and comforting assurance. For tonight, my blanket is just a cotton sheet, and I'm desperately praying some of its magic is still around.

I need you so much closer.

love,

me