she once swore to tear her sky apart once others deemed it necessary, but it was forgotten that – there was always a distance, arguably a little too huge, between the sky and where her feet felt strongest at. there was a large disparity between being able to tell where sensitivity was required and being an excess baggage.
perhaps it took a little more than a u-turn at the end of a long expressway, but she thinks that she’s there. she thinks that with every line drawn clearly against brown paper, with every instance in which she pressed her palms endearingly against the air in the midst of a minute’s worth of choreography, with every little space that she left between the cracks of her sanity, she’s making progress. with every little millimetre added to the once seemingly jarring wound on the back of the palm, she rediscovers the thin line between being insecure, and being pathetic.
it takes more than saving a once volatile word document into a stagnated pdf file, it takes more than telling herself repeatedly that things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did if she hadn’t been that immature – it takes more than self-blame, wallowing in self-pity and being a general negativity magnet. it’s not as simple as willingly asking for forgiveness or pushing oneself off the tilted plank of equilibrium as an unspoken punishment.
cracks are cracks, scars are scars. and if things couldn’t seem to get any clearer, the true dogma remains that you never know where rock bottom is until you hit it – and she, fortunately, hasn’t even touched the surface of the bottom of the vast well. perhaps calling it a scar would be a little over the top, and a wound wouldn’t be apt in a description of dreams gone dry – it remains as a conundrum, as hackneyed as it might’ve come across as.
in dreams gone dry and reality splashing over the once infallible veil of filtered vision, perhaps being befuddled in the depths of the troughs of her mood curvature would’ve been seen as natural. but the key’s to clamber over the walls before the strings turn taut and cleavage furrows build it’s comfort zone around the crevices of every one of her joints – because if she was brought up to understand the very fact that things rotate and only orbit around a single principle.
perhaps, if you were about to hurt someone, at least make sure it makes you feel better afterwards because if it isn’t a win-lose situation at the very least, the process wasn’t worth – it wouldn’t be dignified, it would’ve been a childish banter, a foolish decision, albeit much more than what one would call a moment of folly. it would’ve been an unfortunate event in which over the repetitive cycles of memories turning sepia and sweat turning into the air she would asphyxiate in, ironically, what everything truly boils down to is her identity.
it’s difficult to tell where she ends and where she should begin – but it’s the basic rule for survival.
it’s the only one.