iecrazylately
what do you do
when the road ahead is the road you’ve looked down countless times past. when you’ve never looked back before today, but today you pause. the first time on this path that you pause and start to turn your head, but the instant the light starts seeping into the corners of your heart from behind, you close your eyes and the tear that trickles down is full to bursting with whys. when you wake and the world ahead is blurred and foggy, but the eerie voice that thrives in the mist whispers and whispers and whispers the promises you know couldn’t be kept disembodied. the ones you want kept and broken all in one painful mixture of joy and trepidation. the ecstasy of st. theresa deprived the deus ex machina. instead, just the stark frigid grip in your chest that wrests cries from your throat unheard of by man or god in this destitute history of earth. when cries of grief and perdition, suffering and sublimation, diversion, fuse into that irredeemable, catatonic, coagulate mixture. when you press your palm to your face so hard the nails dig in because you know that lingering scent, and if only you could remember its origin, which aches with the power and sickening beauty of the unanswered. when today was the day you almost looked back for the first time. but you didn’t. what do you do.
what do you do
when the road ahead is the road you’ve looked down countless times past. when you’ve never looked back before today, but today you pause. the first time on this path that you pause and start to turn your head, but the instant the light starts seeping into the corners of your heart from behind, you close your eyes and the tear that trickles down is full to bursting with whys. when you wake and the world ahead is blurred and foggy, but the eerie voice that thrives in the mist whispers and whispers and whispers the promises you know couldn’t be kept disembodied. the ones you want kept and broken all in one painful mixture of joy and trepidation. the ecstasy of st. theresa deprived the deus ex machina. instead, just the stark frigid grip in your chest that wrests cries from your throat unheard of by man or god in this destitute history of earth. when cries of grief and perdition, suffering and sublimation, diversion, fuse into that irredeemable, catatonic, coagulate mixture. when you press your palm to your face so hard the nails dig in because you know that lingering scent, and if only you could remember its origin, which aches with the power and sickening beauty of the unanswered. when today was the day you almost looked back for the first time. but you didn’t. what do you do.