Growing Void

 

I remember feeling this way back then. I remember thinking, what a stale bread, what a life to shread. And before I realize it fully, I become numb.

The process of detachment is hard for your soul, while you try to compensate it with looking decent in your latest internet selfie. You thought, not again. But here you are, being tested once again to the limit of infinity. Who knows, right? Not you, or the person next to you. It's all a big secret of the sky, a mystery to drawn you closer to your best potential. They promise you will like the person you'll become, depite the constant sadness you feel holding back the lump in your throat. As if letting it slide will drop you to the category: shame of the town.

I am numb.

Now I can say I do not feel or think as much as I was before. I simply wake up and fall asleep based on the assigned time table. I do my part, and the rest of the day is used to staring blankly to the wall. The wave is settle, the wind die down, and my shore is a bed of shreded glass. It is pretty under the sun, gleaming like fallen stars if you use your telescope during the day. I send down the flame in a dugged pit. I let it rest. If this is the death of me, I wonder why the next morning is exactly the same blues. As if, being kept for the sake of finishing my sentences.

Should Have Seen It Coming

 

Yesterday, I did a beauty treatment called lash lift. As the name suggests, it's supposed to give a lift to your eyelash, as in push up bra. I regret it.

My lashes are categorized thin and short, the beauticitian told me. Okay, I think, I know I'm not up to the standart but at least she's not pulling punches. Since she's the expert, she should know better of what to do to enhance the lacking in my lashes. I proceeded with caution.

In god honest truth, I didn't enjoy the process of this treatment. I didn't feel relax nor excited to see the result. I just wanted it to be done. My friend was there with me, hyping me up, saying I'd look as pretty as those Insta baddies. Hmm, yeah, I mean, I was never interested in them so, whatever?

The long hour finally passed. I looked in the mirror. Oh, yeah, this probably can be pretty cool, I think. Then I changed my mind the next morning I woke up with lashes STICKING to my eyelid. They didn't look anywhere near flattering. They were stiff and looked fried. I was pissed.

At the end of the day, I got sad looking at my lashes. I was fine with them as they were. They're not much, but I didn't have the need to always looked like a certified pretty girl on the internet. Bottom line, I was fine with how I looked, I accepted it with all my heart. The sadness came from the fact that someone else could say something about me and made me think I needed a fix in my appearance. That someone, I have to admit, made me feel like what I was then was not good enough. And being not good enough is easily a trigger for me.

Now I have to live with not only being less than the common beauty standart, but also, my lashes look dead and pissed me off all the time.

Yep.

I Always Wonder

 

A text came in. A picture of stacking books, one of them is Rumi. I instantly remember a promise. He said it's my birthday, I should have asked something. I asked for Rumi, the poet, anything he wrote, I desired. It was a year ago. I haven't owned any of Rumi's. He just bought one, but not for me.