“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”
— Charles Bukowski
P.49 / 1896
My knees buckle,
My mind, it bends
My mouth stumbles
Over the words it borrows
From others with less sorrows
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit
Maybe I do remember.
The quiet thoughts in dark corners during rainy days or sunny mornings.
I remember losing. Losing against thoughts that snuck up on me.
Is that form beside me a friend? It whispers to me, like a friend would, like we share a secret.
It’s the secret to why I feel like this. The whispers are heavy when they reach my ears. Words with weight to them.
My knees shake. It’s cold. It's the rain. Is it the light breeze? There’s sun. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands.
I don’t know what’s gripping me. I don’t know what’s holding me down.
I can’t stand up.
It won’t let me go. It’s in my legs, in my arms. Weight, so much weight. It holds my hand. And it whispers.
Louise Glück, from ""Averno", Averno
Hermann Hesse (1877-1962), Wandering: Notes and Sketches
●a way to let go of my thoughts because I fear they might crush me● ||they/them||
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