I planted flowers near bodies of water where the dirt gave easily, expecting them to open up and swallow the morning air, but they never did. They withered and rotted. Sunk back into the place of my mind where the stillness of my being and the motion of my thoughts intertwine. I expect no one else to cure this part of me except me. I will unravel it all until it makes sense and put it back together like fine latticework. This feels like bravery because that’s what I need it to be. Maybe it’s an act of truth that collides with reality? Except I have a problem with letting go. I reach for the moon when I was only meant to touch the clouds. I dive into oceans and I can’t even swim. I never wanted to learn anyways, but look at me now. I’m drowning in it all. It‘s like the pressure you feel when the air sinks beneath you. Causing your lungs to expand past the rib cage that can’t protect you anymore. Crack it open like your favorite book and reread your script. Study your lines and accept what you can’t expect without really knowing. None of this was part of the plot. And the characters aren’t who you said they’d be. You expected much more than they were capable of giving. So go dig up those seeds that you desperately wanted to plant. I promise they didn’t wash away. Dig and find like how you do with those crippling thoughts. Hide them in the dark until you think you’re ready. And when you go back to get them you’ll stumble through waves of lilacs that crash upon you because you’ve been blooming all along.