It’s doubtful that they ever knew how inside of you trickled a tiny stream of phrases promising without delivery an action that never arrived. It’s dubious that they ever imagined that the tiny rivulet would become secret floodwaters within you that one day would drown out all ideas pertaining to them as the surge broke down the wooden posts only half-blocking their phrases from the machines within your head that processed the wood into truth. Little did they all know that within you were compartmentalizations of them that became a burden too heavy to hear by the cabinets inside of you that held their weight. Shocked will they be when the contents fall to the floor and the flood eroded the wooden structure of the homes they built within you with your permission. Fortunate will you be when all that is broken is washed away leaving you with a clean slate to build your own walls.
I imagine that stones must tire of the same current bearing down heavily on their surfaces. Leaves must expire after strict devotion to their trees and so they must fall. Will my legs give under the pressure of this great atmosphere as I climb the stairs into the sky? All things in existence must be like me… secretly trying to just get by.
I’m sure there’s more to this story of life. It is a pleasant thing to smile at the wind when you drop your heavy burdens; it no longer struggles to tilt you down. Now I can’t help but think of butterflies and how they must struggle against the gust, forever flying into the horizon to perch on the perfect flower.
My chest feels like butterfly wings in the midst of struggle.