This May be a Long Week…

I spent the better half of the day listening to someone else speak.

I did what I’m good at: I listened and threw in slight interjections that I knew she would appreciate. “What? That’s terrible!” I would say. “Oh, that dickwad!” I would yell. “I know, right?!!” she would answer time and time again, visibly satisfied with my interruptions. It was normal “girl talk” and it was weird how much I loved it.

I love to be needed. I always have. But now I’m back to this place that’s supposed to be home, and to others it seems to be, and I’m just… not. And I’m not sure how to handle it.

My routine is broken. My easy routine where I was forced to eat lunch and dinner with strangers I grew to love and afterward talk about nothing until way after dark, play ridiculous games that were way noisier than they should have been, and lounge around. Just lounge. Sitting around, quiet, and enjoying the company; our own odd company, until the very end of the day. Starting toward the end of the year, on special days, which our group referred to as “Faithe & Friend Days”, me and my friend would just talk, outside of the normal group dynamic, and we’d have one of those odd conversations that I so oddly enjoyed. She would talk of her feelings, concerns, annoyances (which I found comical), and interesting life. I would listen and interject, eventually talking (eventually being the key word since I’m such a reluctant conversationalist) about my feelings, concerns, annoyances, and lack of a life. Back home. Back here. Where I am.

Back here, where I sit on my tuffet like little Miss Muffet and rhyme until words grow dull.

Back here, where I wait for my younger brother to come home to interrupt my much-too-long slumber and hold a conversation.

Back here, where I see my friends weekly, occasionally wondering whether or not I have them or whether I’ve just made them up.

Back here, where I’m physically fit, but emotionally drained and I actually have to cook food to eat it.

Back here, where I’m not really needed. Or constantly called. Or asked for. Where I have to make myself busy with various craft projects, formulating intricate schemes, and recreational reading…

Back here… where I’m STUCK.

I don’t drive. Which is ridiculous only because I live in a place where you literally have to drive to get anywhere because walking would take too long and basically means death for everyone involved: meaning me. But it is also somewhat extraneous information because if I were to drive… where would I go? Who would I go with? Most likely I’d just pick up my brothers all day and then my life wouldn’t even be self-productive, so that’s not even really an issue unless I get a sudden craving for frozen yogurt.

I told myself that as long as I’m here, bored anyway, to make this as productive a week as possible with no social media or promises of people who would eventually disappoint me. Just reading, writing, learning to type, scholarships, and finalizing business venture ideas. And now I’m thinking to myself…

This will be a REALLY LONG WEEK.

That is all.

– Faithe

Only Words

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You know I adore you
​why do you ask more of me?
​You know my heart beats for you
​why do you not believe me?
​Words are only words
​their sole purpose being
​to express what you’re feeling
​but my feelings go further
​than what they have for you
​So why must you ask for a word?
​I admire you
​I am devoted to you
​I live for you
​Am enchanted by you
​Why conform to a word?

Knowledge in Grass

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I lie in the grass
in the countryside alone,
stretching out my arms beneath the sky.
Although in life the underlying things seem of most importance,
I release them from my hand.
As I let them fall and shatter, I breathe.
In my breath I consume the world, though
it remains intact. I lose myself in thought
and I lost my thought in breath.
Beneath all the nothingness, it was me. Not me in entirety
because my feelings were non-present.
It was me in wholeness, in fullness, and contentment. It wasn’t
me, it was I without distraction. Beauty in deep, dark,
emptiness.
In school they taught the five senses, I suppose they do still,
but never had they told of them dissolving,
as mine had now. Did they know? Do those who
so say to ‘know’ the world absorb it? Do they let
the world inject it with knowledge or do they mimic
the needle it pokes with
and fill themselves up with their own wisdom?
My thoughts awoke me in a whirlpool of upset meditation
and I reentered the world’s surface.
Again I was in the grass,
in the countryside,
beneath the sky.