“(thank fuck) the holidays are over,” a voice of confession rolls through my attention.
A celebration of it’s own.
If you struggle through the holidays,
You know exactly what I mean.
A gentle ease,
A knowing now,
That all is well.
A deepening of what is,
A deepening of what is not.
The triggers hoisted our attention,
Our demons by our side.
The clutter was drowning,
The loneliness, true suicide.
But the space we craved is now here,
All that is unwell is ready to dissolve.
An infinity of good coming,
A cyclic melancholy unable to break.
The space we needed is here now.
For you have survived hell.
Trinity Kubassek, via pexels