The Findings

I fluffed my toes into the wasps of sand, I arched my fingers, pretending them to be my lovers. Licking the dirt off my lip, I closed my eyes and inhaled the smell of the ocean, and thought of my mother. The sun beamed it’s sadness on the perks of my hairline, and it burned but I smiled anyway.

Why doesn’t the ocean end? Why can’t you reach the sky? why can’t the dead breathe?

Because there is no point. There never was one, and will be one. Gust go out there and lose yourself in the ocean of wishes and dreams, lose yourself in the path, and if there is a point, it’s about finding yourself, not proving something to someone.

Feeling the cool of my wet hair, burning with the love of sun against the curtains of air, I inhaled again. and told myself to never have a goal, but always, paths. Paths of glorified pain and hard work.

And I let myself cry. The worst kind of cryings.

The worst kind of crying happens when no one sees. Tears aren’t meant to be seen. They wear an invisibility clone of whiteness, a sheen layer of pain and a kind ache of the heart. If the sun reflected on the tears, fire would be born. If the moon kissed the tears, a scar would be born.

That’s whats real crying is. When you give birth to a scar you can remember for the rest of your life, an internal scar you can rejoice and celebrate with mixed wine and stale vodka.

Life is hard because of lack of cigarettes, life is hard because people are unkind and self harm isn’t justified. It’s hard because this world is always spinning, running, no one takes a moment to stop.

I hear screams but when I look, everybody’s got their mouth shut. So let yourself be heard. Let yourself cry. Let yourself experience the art of healing. Develop a mind that breaks boundaries, lifts your spirit, and tells you that it’s healthy to be sad sometimes and have a good cry.


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