I’m just so tired of the draining monotony.

The constant struggle.

The being twenty steps behind

and not having any control over my life.

I’m so worn out by the agitation and undulating pain

of an existence that is suffering.

The addiction to escapism is real.

It’s a portal to a world where problems belong to others.

Not me.

And my children.

These beautiful innocent souls.

So shrouded in pain and intolerance.

Surrounded by depression and ignorance.

They are beams of light.

Fresh air bottled up and sealed with each new day.

Being near them makes your lungs fill with air.

Air that hasn’t been breathed in years.

In centuries maybe.

I long to hold them tight to my chest

and battle anything that threatens to steal their light.

To extinguish their lumenescnese

Including myself.

Knowing that I will be the bridge leading them to an unsafe world

where they will experience pain and suffering

so that they can grow and become

who they’ll become.

And yet.

Here I am.

The pain in my chest radiating out

like a toxic dose of sugar coated dread.

The pressure pushing down on my shoulders

never allowing me to stand straight.

The fear.

Oh the fear.

The fear is the worst.

I am defined by it.

Managed by it.

Consumed by its unholy embers.

Burning into my soul.

Fear of losing it all.

Fear of failure.

Holding too tight.

Because, in the end. It matters.

Every second of existence matters.

Each breath and thought and sound and movement matters.

It is all so very poignant.

So prominent.

So poetically perfectly imperfect.

I want to give up and flee.

To run and hide.

To have someone remove the boulder I’ve placed on my own chest.

But there is no one there.

No hand to grab.

No light at the end of the tunnel.

Just shame.

And me.

And a shovel.

And two beautiful beacons of light to guide my way.

LR_2018