My heart has always been full of love: Kindness for the world and its creatures, soft tender emotions to my friends, and all the attention to those who are hurting. Never once did I tire of pouring my tears and joy out like a waterfall. No matter how bad I felt, I was going to try my hardest to keep hold of hope.
But nothing lasts forever.
My heart burns, bright and hot like an oil lamp, but the wick is old, and the fuel is costly. The hate and depression in this world has claims on what it wants, leaving less and less each time I turn the light on.
Thus, I am burning out, running on embers, choking on smoke.
Walking the same hallways and expecting a different path, chasing my old friends while failing to see new ones, what I have left is no longer suitable. I’m bored of the ticking clock, and I click my pen until the spring breaks.
Habit says the more I do the easier it gets, but every morning when I wake, my eyes feel heavier than my growing responsibilities.
“Hello” is a word losing meaning. So are “fine,” “okay,” and “sorry.” It is almost as if the weeds in my garden keep growing to the point that I now see them as part of one whole jungle. In each word I write or say, each glows less and less, petering out like flame drenched by rain.
My head and body hurt from the countless hits I endure from my faceless abuser. In the form of shadows, cold winds, and sharp stares, it watches, constantly plaguing my moves. I understand the purpose of each jab because it builds me. But how long does it take before ‘sorry’ stops healing my broken ribs?
I am young, tired, and desensitized to the horrors I witness. People beg for my opinions, but the more I say the less belief my heart holds in them. When I turn a blind eye, it feeds guilt festering in the dark.
Why can’t I give more? Why is what I’m doing not helping the world around me? Am I truly doing nothing if people are not smiling?
In a way, I wish that was what settled my heart. To not feel responsible for everything I see. I feel sorry for things I didn’t do. Silenced by others because I’m just a young white woman who is so great and privileged.
Sure, I am a hypocrite, but don’t ever say that I never did something.
What I do now may not ever be seen or heard, and my blazing passion may falter and flicker until the end, but at least the cup poured out had something in it.
I am almost eighteen, considered an adult by legal terms, but society will still call me a child. One that gets lost in the woods, and calls for her mom and dad when she falls out of a tree. One that will get her boots dirty from playing in the creek and scream when a bee flies past her face.
But at least the child I was had a sense of pride when it came to protection and care. I may not ever be able to show who I was back then, and I may never become that when I get older, but never doubt for a second that I think about what I do every day.
So please, when I yawn, space off looking at a wall, or sigh and deflate, know that that’s a sign that I need some time to get back on my feet before I feed the fire again.
