The sum of what I write in this isn't actually what I want to be said. Because there is everything left to be said. But my suffering is not unique. It's been written already, in movies and books, songs and letters. But I still find myself altered and unknown. The carousel ferris wheel never stops turning and it only carries me in circles. I catch myself still waiting for it to come back around. It won't. I can't tell if I'm waiting for you anymore or if I'm waiting for who I was to come back.
7/2026 // cursed to come back around
Put your ear to me and you'd hear the ocean. I lost little pieces. I didn't even notice them being swept away. But the waves, they tumble and roam, never stopping, never returning. I can't name what was carried off. I've let large chunks slip to the depths and I'm not sure what to fit into their place. I could push new story lines, and fill it with new content but I fear it will fall right on through like an open drain.
7/2026 // a geometry that structurally cannot meet
So I think you're supposed to name your feelings or whatever and I think mine is grief. It's so domestic and mundane, a common household name. But it's mighty in its emptiness, and dismissive in its shame. Grief isn't the ocean, it isn't the drain, it's the ferris wheel, going in circles, you wait for it to move on, and it keeps coming back around.
7/2026 // you had the nerve to say Geronimo
Ferris wheel to waves, what feels closest to true? Maybe I'm just closed for the season and this time, I won't come back around.