when gravity smiles.

we don’t consume art to feel seen; we consume art to share the weight of everything we’ve been carrying.

What if I am just a pit after all? A black hole that envelops, engulfs anything that crosses the event horizon. A line of no return. I consume. I consume, I give, I eat myself up in the process, I keep fooling myself to believe this treadmill is life. Dear Diary, I don’t think even being seen is enough anymore. They read my words like titles of books stacked in a bookshelf. They scroll past the blurbs trying to figure out the author, never knowing she is doomed. She thinks she wants it until it is close enough to be real. Then she runs. She runs before they can realize oh what a horrible nightmare she is. Before they realize what a blunder it was. How miserable she is. How exhausting she is.

And I wonder what could’ve fixed me? Reading the books I recommend? The shows I binged? Probably sharing earcords? Maybe a vent out? A horrible horrible pit that swallows everything they put in. Cause I can’t feel anything at all. It is never enough. It is never enough for me. I thought maybe being seen would be enough, but it turns out it isn’t. I bare myself over and over again, only to find myself floating on the surface like a carcass. I overshare, I relive terrible times over and over again until I can’t feel the pain any more. Until it’s just a story that doesn’t feel like mine to tell. Useless. It is so useless. I could have so much in me and yet nothing all at once (speak or die?)

Where do I go from here? If it takes everything in me to write these words, is it worth speaking or just dying?

Where do I go from here? I try to translate into words, leaving cues as if it were a map, but does having a map mean finding the destination? How selfish to want the weight to be shared instead of holding theirs?

Where do I go from here? Maybe the map isn’t finished after all if I am still asking for directions. The irony of hovering around a choice while actively making one. I speak cause if I don’t, ain’t I as good as dead? So we loop in. We keep going to the start. The doom, the inevitability. We don’t consume art to feel seen; we consume art to share the weight of everything we’ve been carrying. And in that moment, it doesn’t matter if it is fictional, if it isn’t real, because sharing that agony for even a split second is. It is more real than the faded memories and jagged remains of wounds that never healed. A semblance of peace, a shield to the anxiety of looking for things, one will never find. So I fill this void, this black hole, with the museum of everything that seems real, close enough to feel relatable. Gravity smiles every time it succeeds in warping my reality to its own, and I let it. I let it take over because what else do I do? What else do I even do? Except sticking to building museums of poetry, books, art, photographs, philosophy and fragments of people’s lives and my own. I try to hold on to scraps of conversations, stories, and people because that is what tired people do. They metabolise existence into something palatable to seem less needy, less human. So I do just that, hiding under the blanket of metaphors from space, I intertwine my fate with the tragedy of forgotten stars, so every time gravity smiles, it knows it has been my only ever home.

Until the next one,

Love, xoxo.