“It will pass,” they say.
“It takes time,” I hear.
“It doesn’t end,” I whisper.
The fields of your mind become barren and obsolete, promising a drought with no timeline. Where there were sparks of hope like dancing fireflies circling the night, now lay burnt remnants of dried up dreams on the ground of what doesn’t exist.
It becomes that season when you can no longer feel the warmth of the light shining on you and pulsing through your veins, surfing through your streams. Instead the sensation shifts into an uncomfortable reminder that your skin has wounds deep below the surface that will never inhale a breath of clean air.
What was once a bright and blooming patch of hope has wilted into a crumbling formation of what could have been. The clouds scurry to cover the sun, quickly scattering across its beams to protect the happiness of everyone else.
The vibrant colors surrounding you are now rubbed off like a cheap eraser, smudging what you thought you knew into a mess of blurred lines and expectations. You can’t touch the tornado because your skin will absorb the tragedy written in ink, seeping grief into your frail bones.
It’s that season where you can’t speak words because the flaming fear may breathe them into hot stones you have to hold. Your hands will blister, starting to crack and peel, to reveal that you are not in control of what you carry.
You can’t process what you hear because the fire has rippled through your forest, spreading ashes where you once found refuge. The sirens howl to the sky and the lights flash through the depth of darkness, but the familiar foggy smoke covers a blanket over what is left of you so you cannot be found. The mission was not to come save you, but to show you what is just beyond your reach.
The drought warps every brick of your foundation until you no longer know what permanent burdens rumble your legs to move. You can’t feel the pressure in the air because your body no longer exists in a form that even a dusty attic mirror can reflect to you.
It’s that season where you hold your breath, waiting in anticipation for the time to tick just a bit faster. You latch onto that hope that something will rattle you enough to knock the oxygen back into your lungs like a punch through your chest.
Maybe your feet will tremble on the ground beneath you, reminding you that numbness doesn’t last forever. Your fingers might start to wiggle, bending and curling like they forgot how to move. The blood in your body begins to flow, finding a path to that old familiar pattern of your heart.
The drumming is faint but determined to be steady. Like the youngest musician at the end of the drum line, the rhythm of your heartbeat is new, yet rehearsed.