Wayside

I'm hearing my voice in the strangest of places lately. It doesn't happen very often, so when it becomes apparent, I shut up and I listen. God knows there is way too much clutter filling up a space of sanctity. 

In this moment, I'm alone, and I'm usually never alone. I feel the warmth of tears on rosy cheeks and in this space, I have no reason to wipe them away. In the parallel universe, I so often reside in, I don't give myself the luxury of feeling their warmth. I don't give myself the luxury of feeling much at all until my heartbeat has pounded everything into dust and I'm forced to start over. That's what this is, another start. 

I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to carry grains of sand and beat myself up for the ones that I drop. My worth is not associated with how many have slipped between my fingers, and it certainly isn't attached to how many I still hold in my hand as a gust of wind can take all of that away. I wash my hands clean of the existence I decided to tune into for way too long. I don't want to play that game anymore. 

But even still, for 6 beautiful months, I felt the heat of the sun on my skin. I knew that there are no consequences associated with me being myself. Those truths I lived are the only thing in this world that matters now.  None of this was ever meant to be taken seriously. Nothing except for the breath I have that sustains me is real - everything else can be left by the wayside.