bricks. (dear you, pt. 7)

every thought

every word

every night

every mess

every mea

every drive

every game

every rest

doesn't feel like rest. 

the weights have been removed, 

but the weight has yet to be lifted.  

the goal is in sight,

the future is bright. but so is the past. 

and they're blinding me from truly comprehending the present.  

and so it feels dark again. and it's 5am again. and again. and again.  

weight.  

it's heavier when you're not expecting it.  

a box could contain feathers or bricks and to us it's as light as a feather until we lift it. and we weren't expecting bricks and so we underprepared and we just threw our back out.  

But so much of my experiences taught me to prepare for bricks, so why did I expect feathers? call it optimism. call it ignorance. 

 //

dear you, 

you've been carrying bricks for way too long. and that box will give way soon.  

I also want to know what it's like to feel weightlessness;

not as an absolving of duty, but a refreshing exercise in letting go and trusting. maybe if we walk away from the bricks, we won't have to come back to them. because the funny thing about bricks is that it's way more difficult for them to follow you. and they're easier to transport one at a time. 

let's put the bricks down for a while.