im barely breathing, suffering season.

 

 

This is not written for the young or the light of heart, not for the tranquil species of men whose souls are content with the simple pleasures of family, church, or profession. Rather, I write to those beings like myself whose existence is compounded by lurid intermingling of the dark and the light; who can judge rationally and think with reason, yet who feel too keenly and churn with too great a passion; who have an incessant longing for happiness and yet are shadowed by a deep and persistent melancholy — those who grasp gratification where they may, but find no lasting comfort for the soul.

— B.E Scully

 

 

 ————————

 

 

 

 

Being a dreamer is enough. 

No need for another dreamer to bring her to the skies.

She needed an anchor to hold her down,

But a part of her also wanted to drown.

  

Like an inflatable balloon, 

breathing in helium was scary enough.

She needed to stay grounded,

But how low does she need to go?

 

 

Revert to the original,

Back to where everything began.

To stop floating, air has to leave the balloon.

At what point does she allow herself to asphyxiate?

  

Being a dreamer, she loved being in the sky. 

The clouds let her forget why she was so sorrowful and mellow.

Until the face in the clouds made her cry again.

Only she could see it, and it was so scary no one else could comprehend.

"Not the aisle seat, I'd be too exposed."

"Not the window seat, I'd be too close to the sun." 

Being a dreamer, she always wanted to explore; 

But on this astral plane?

————————

M.

or maybe it's me and
i'm at the pity party of my dreams.