garden

 and yet, I am growing my garden.

I had so many beautiful words, once. I knew how to say things. Now I don't know how to say much of anything. 

 a garden is an investment, i tell myself. first the seeds, then the soil.

It's the end of 2023 and I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm not sure I'll ever stop being sorry. It's like that creak in floorboards that you grow accustomed to. Things are just... like this now.Therapy and healing soften it, but it's a feature now. 

the flowers don't come until later.

I've got six plants on my windowsill and a room the right size for just me in a place I told myself I'd never live again. For a long time, there were fireworks when I would do even simple things. But for a while now, the room has been getting colder and I end up sleeping a lot. It takes so much energy to make magic

plants are incredibly resilient things, i remind myself. 

I love that even on the very darkest of nights, you can see shooting stars. For a little while now though, the air pollution has had a particularly powerful impact and there are less and less miracles to be seen in the cold darkness. Sometimes there are particularly long stretches of time where nothing seems to be moving and it feels like somehow I'm simultaneously the last human being on the planet and not human at all at the same time. At times like these, it's important to take one, two, three tiny little breaths, feeling the ground beneath my feet.

they can brave torrential storms and destructive winds and still go on.

I went to the dentist today and had two cavities and a panic attack. My first thought was, "Man, these people are probably thinking that a twenty-five year old should have it more together than this." and my second thought was that it would be so much better if you were here with me. If anyone was there with me, honestly. I wish that, as I sat down in the clerk's seat still reeling from the procedure, I could turn to someone and say, "Holy shit, my dental bill is $307.07 with insurance?!" and have them be so equally aghast that we just laugh about it and maybe I don't cry in my car afterwards. It's the small things I guess.

even when some leaves turn brown and flake off and away, they can still recover.

My ceiling is officially decorated with the glow in the dark stars just for the child in my heart. They cast faint light on the paper butterflies dangling from strings, the plastic vines and the posters, a little napkin astronaut strung up amongst them. He's been there longer than the stars, just waiting for them to arrive. Maybe this is what adulthood is. A sea of loneliness, bills and being beaten down interspersed with moments of trying to create or wait for a little bit of light, even if it's artificial. Ultimately, we all return to stardust anyways.

as long as there is water, they'll find a way.

Little bird, please sing just a little bit louder. It's much too noisy in here. I haven't forgotten you.

one just has to be patient. the flowers don't come until later. the flowers don't come until later.

It's been about a year and a half and god, I miss you. This is an investment, I tell myself. It will get better. This is growth, this is finding myself, this is purposeful, this is adulthood. I have come so far. It will make sense eventually. Just keep going. Just be patient. Listen to your own advice. Be patient. An ever-present mantra. For now though, I'll keep repeating it and look up at those plastic stars and hope for the best. It will get better eventually. It has to, right?

and here i am, growing my garden