more

I feel as small as the

trees

look from my favorite spot.

A sea of civilization

freckled with

oaks,

redwoods,

pines.

I am one of these trees.

And I am drowning in the

immensity of my surroundings.

Drowning inside my body.

Drowning in the

thought of it all.

In the infinite possibility.

Yet

my legs keep kicking,

arms keep

paddling.

I feel a drought all around

but

my body is so full.

My head is so heavy.

The chemicals will

kick in soon enough,

though.

And the dams

will hold.

I will go through another day.

Holding back

the war I want to

unleash.

I will crawl into

bed; alone: tired.

And think:

tomorrow will be better.

because

you made it one more day.

And I will be

proud

of that.

And I will be

proud

of myself.

And I will be,

one day,

more than ok.

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little

But sometimes, just the affirmation of time passing is enough. Because we were little. Little people living someone else’s big lives. Borrowed. Un-earned. We weren’t caviar. Weren’t hired gardeners. We didn’t tan, or say I love you with diamonds and reservation dinners. We were little. Like, picnics and hikes and scary movies half-watched in the dark. Something different. Something I cannot impose upon your senses, make you see. Something small. But something, always, unequivocally, irrevocably important.