On the Cusp.

I'm going through a bit of a life transition right now. I'm at that point where I'm about 3/4 of the way through my degree where I've come to terms with the fact that I've been trying to please a whole lot of people and ignoring myself in the process. As I try to turn it around, I am being confronted with relentless anxiety and depression but I am trying my best to meditate and breathe through it. If there's anything I have learned over the past year, it's that I can handle a fucking ton of shit and make it through. Anyway, that said, I don't have much time to write a formal post but I thought I would post an excerpt of my writing. I think it perfectly envelopes where I am and I just want to start sharing more of my prose because it is a passion of mine and this is where all my passions come to merge. So here you go. 


Like a drop of water teetering on the edge of a rose petal, I waited for the inevitable moment of spillover.

I wanted to run away and start again. Every time a fresh rain would fall I ached to open my eyes in a new place. Life, however, kept me still for longer than I was comfortable. It reminded me, each time I felt a glimmer of ease or certainty, that I was now living in a world of imbalance and I had to constantly fight for equilibrium.  

There is a beauty in transformation. Perhaps it lies within the essence of freedom. A blank space implies the ability to paint on it whatever you may choose. For many months, especially during the more trying moments, I would remember one thing: that in falling apart, I was given the unique opportunity to reinvent myself. I had an infinite palette of colors, each swatch a part of myself I could assemble in any way I wanted. If only I had been alone to reassemble myself in peace. Instead, the renovation occurred on a stage with a thousand spectators which simultaneously stripped me of any innocence I ever had.

I’m not free. Not yet.

I’ve spent a million summers trapped under the cloudless sky of the valley. Sun kissed skin and hair in the wind mean nothing to me when I step onto the pebbles of the beach and all I can see is the other side of the water.

My heart is waiting for an endless ocean.

My eyes are becoming dry and my body aches. I am not myself. Caught between cocoon of necessity and freedom of relapse, I wane, uncertain. It’s funny, the way illness weaves itself into your life and turns everything you ever wanted into a picture in a frame you suddenly were never able to take yourself.

This place, the place that gave me home, is now a cavern of memories I want to put away forever.

I’m waiting for the moment when I’m allowed to breathe out.

I want to be free. I want to hike the mountains of the tallest desert, inhale the sharp air until my lungs can’t take it, smell the freshness of water like it’s the first time, look into someone’s eyes and feel like lightning has struck me in the tip of my spine.

I will be numb no longer.

I yearn to squeeze every drop out of this life I have fought so hard for. And yet like a wave of the ocean I imagine when I close my eyes, I remain on the cusp, anticipating the second I am finally able to make my descent.