holding breath
on endings carrying into the new year
Mugs have unintentionally been left on my windowsill, tea gone cold; my desk will tell you the same when you meet it, coffee bitter, the sugar’s sunken to the bottom with my hopes and dreams of doing nothing but watching a film, reading a book, or getting lost in a simulation for hours, disappear. My back hurts; I’ve had three free Saturdays since August started; I’m tired and my eyes refuse to close as often as they should, leaving me to watch the moon outshine the stars and worry about the messages I’ve yet to reply to; my books have stains on them, coffee spilt all over the pages, remnants of my makeup on covers, because I can’t seem to get hold of not touching my face; the people that I have lost touch with due to overwhelm; the people I have probably disappointed whilst overextending myself for their love and compassion, abandoning self for the sake of hope that was never promised and is yet to be fulfilled.
I’ll take walks and let the wind hollow out my ears, my breath graze the wind and the grey kiss me whilst my face stretches towards the sun reflecting on the left over parts of Christmas, bits of tinsel on the ground, fairy lights on gutters and railings holding hopes and fears, as the sun continues hiding itself as the year pulls taut feeling like the last corner of a sheet being spread onto a mattress; little promises hoping to be held, holding air in our mouths as to disallow unravelling.
Laughter circling the air sitting with friends over coffee, then someone blinks in a way that reminds me that grief still exists and holds itself steady in corners I’d forgotten to look at; but I yelled into the abyss, danced to Florence and The Machine, baked my stress away, fear holding itself in my chest as anaiis unknots the dread twisting in my head whilst I place hands on the ground, my feet on their balls and my hips to the air reaching downward dog as the pain in my wrist still echoes its hurt from never listening to what my body tells me to do. I’ll cry whilst making dinner, and smile as a mother and her two young girls pass by me on the national rail holding takeaways cups in their hand, a smile returned by the last girl pride set all over her face for pulling off looking sophisticated in London. I’ll log off of instagram, but log back on analogue style, from my computer, because the itch to let it go feels hard, but there is too much information, and I just need space for my mind to breathe; to feel like I am sat by the sea, mug in hand watching waves pull in and out without fear and worry of what’s to come, to just be and exist without the existential dread that it is all falling apart – hope. I need hope.
I can do hard things. I can do hard and great things. I can do hard, great and wonderful things; I tell myself as I ease into this year that doesn’t seem to have a middle or end but is more definitive and clearer than the last, separated solely by day; and I’ll hold it tender and steady, in the same way I hold myself.