Had a talk with my mother, or rather she talked and i stood in the kitchen with eyes firmly planted in the soil of a piece of paper. I held the pen to the surface and let ink bleed in to the fibres the way I wish I could bleed out the guilt and let it exist on the page and not in me. I understood her every word. Had felt each emotion she spoke of, thought each thought she had thought. I lived in the country of her mind. I was a seed planted and grown from her earth. I knew the land for I was born from it. I absorbed her state of mind through my roots when I was most thirsty, sadness seeping like rain water. And I lived with it. I lived through it. came to love the familiarity of the vines that wound around our home like a slow motion boa, constricting the room for growth. I staked my own ground as it spilled out around us. the gaps getting wider like melting northern ice and we all ended up on our seperate pieces, floating away. I had found the beginnings of a new life. I found someone to be all I needed, an island to land on. new ground to plant seeds of my own, creating a home. I rarely looked back, and I should have. Should have created a bond elastic enough to stretch the distance. but it was brittle and splintered away into dust.
A psychiatric disorder characterized by an inability to
concentrate, insomnia, loss of appetite, anhedonia, feelings of extreme sadness,
guilt, helplessness and hopelessness, and thoughts of death.
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