my own picture
Torrential rain pours on my scalp, saturating my dull strands of hair causing them to cling to my skin. My eyesight is blurred, and the only words I can spit from my lips are smithereens of hopelessness. I thought it would be a good idea to catch up with the fresh breath of nature, but my bare ankles are being whipped by the frost of the gales, and my feet are waterboarded by unjust puddles that are laced into my soaked air force ones.
I stand statuesque under the arteries of broken branches that stem from a solemn tree, sunken in a grey woodland abyss. The sun is paralyzed by December’s hazy voice, leaving me with only the shadows of overcast skies. I envy the thought of being wrapped in the warm orange streaks of the sunset again.
But on the inside—both indoors and in my mind—I am presented with nothing but guilt and responsibility and the feeling of isolation. I can never get anything done without panic and flowing tears, and there is always just a void of inspiration heavily draped on my newly non-existent creativity.
The only thing that I can push my memory to reminisce on is the outdated versions of myself and polaroids of times without trial. My life is now just a conglomeration of uncomfortably warm blankets, Google Docs, and strained vision.
Being hurled into self-doubt and solitude was never my intention, but over the darkening months, it grows harder to accomplish a valued place of worthiness instead of self-loathing thoughts. The only things that hook a temporary smile onto my teeth are reruns of old TV shows and YouTube videos I’ve seen hundreds of times. I guess the blistering hot water from the showerhead that screams in red across my skin for thirty minutes is nice, too.
But I’m honestly just so sick of everything. I’m sick of the cloned days that rocket past me, and I’m sick of the endless sea of assignments. I’m sick of the same surroundings that I’ve witnessed basically everyday since March. I’m sick of being interrupted and being the one to walk on the grass while others walk on the pavement. And I’m also just sick of the lack of movement in my progression of becoming my truest self. I am aware that I’ve said “I’m sick of” too many times, but that phrase seems to be one of the few anchors in my life.
My day is embellished in Lorde lyrics in the in-between moments of nothingness, but my life is the opposite of Melodrama. My head is swarming in flowers, and I can’t seem to grasp anything anymore. All I can work up the nerve to do is to wallow in my antagonism and supposed loneliness.
But as a break in a seemingly infinite schedule and the end of an extraordinarily turbulent year approach, I can come to an understanding that I am the one only thing limiting myself from flourishing—besides COVID-19, the virus that everyone has grown to scorn.
Life is just a brief melody of emotional and physical experiences that compose the contents of the mind. Instead of living as if life is a quaalude, as Frank Ocean would put it, I’m just going to go outside even if the frigid weight of the air seems unbearable. I’m going to let the rain paint my skin in rejuvenation and release the worries of the complex inner workings of my overbearing mind. I’m even going to set my misgivings aside to go admire the occasional sunset that decides to squeeze in an appearance in the final minutes of the five o’clock hour.
In lieu of Lorde’s poetically deep lyrics and rhythms, I’m going to treat my life more melodramatically. Even if the dusky shades of winter are harshly unpleasant and faulty, there is always room to breathe and be present. The intricacies of the day are wavering, but the soft clouds of love and support are invariably present, even with the floods of doubt that crash in like a tsunami.