Dear diary,
Find me struggling to rediscover the path to my way of breathing and healing. The month of May was stitched in place by a quiet storm and the creative thoughts are just resurfacing from the depths of my clearing mind.
In a silent plea, I have requested the universe to leave me at the mercy of my overflowing inkpot just to try and see if I can get reconnected to the springs of my poetic spill and the liberating flow of my prose.
...dear wind, won't you teach me how to let go?
The story behind the smiling mask is long. It comes from a place of making uninformed decisions that involved repeating unhealthy cycles just because exploration of the unfamiliar sounds more terrifying than breaking the toxic routines.
How am I supposed to lean into the unknown? I have a thing for control and growth but won't hear any of it.
...dear sun, won't you paint my soul yellow every dawn?
After the plastic smile folds itself up, the fear that is in charge of staining my pens with doubts comes alive and the little warmth trying to reignite the fire that blazes it down whenever there's an opportunity dies at the thought of fighting back.
How am I going to invite joy where fear intends to reign? I can't force a smile on a bleeding heart.
Only through the magic of the vulnerability of my words can the light sneak back here and only words can bear the weight of my wounds.
...dear June, won't you be kinder than May?
Healing ain't graceful yes but if there was a way to get this space filled with pinches of light then the corners of my brokenness can radiate. Let your days wash over my mid calendar with patience for myself.
wambuku w.