marianaeq

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

#!!!!!!

[marianaeq]

Palma Riad

[marianaeq]

Steam, from freshly brewed coffee, lingers into the air. The will to participate in the day timidly sweeps through and the thoughts from last night mildly enter into today. Sitting here with the fresh breeze of the morning to accompany my journey of dissecting and reorganizing this process. Distributing each into designated or even slightly relevant categories in hopes to find peace in a less discombobulated atmosphere-- clinging to the hope. Innocently, I used to believe that I could be perceived as different. As the weight of the years begin to take a toll, I've come to realize that I'm merely indifferent. To my surprise, the consistency I have is wildly dependent on the status of my sanctuary as it personifies the mess in my mind. Even more astonishing is that I've become a repeated apology. I am the personified apology.

The sounds of the children arriving to school fill the air and the acceleration of cars passing through. Tending to their responsibilities while I sit here, waiting for my coffee to cool down, neglecting mine. When did it become so hard? When did things change so significantly that these moments arrive more frequently-- that's a rhetorical question as all my actions proceed this moment. I used to thrive to make at least acquaintances and now I find difficulty holding onto anything-- including emotions-- for more than a couple of weeks. Making attempts to hold onto those who I had and those who I know desire my presence and even they have fell through the cracks. I sit here on this Friday morning alone. With no other ambition but to write these words and become lustful towards the ability to be better. I fantasize about a time where I can look in the mirror and romanticize the reflection. Stepping away from solely appearance and capturing the internal and external beauty.

I've been awake since the darkness of the morning and the sun has now brighten the horizon. The coffee is now perfect to drink. It's silly, being self aware and accountable. Both conducted isolated. Is my behavior selfish or considerate? I suppose that answer is be dependent on the role I am perceived to play. Sometimes, I think of this as an opportunity to entirely start fresh. To leave it all behind, aside from family of course, and disappear. No way of contacting and mere wonders. Sounds lovely. But, then, I immediately think-- but what if no one knew I was gone? That it got so bad that I faded into the sky and --perhaps I should end it here.

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

to be present is a gift. to articulate words in adequate sequences that represent the turmoil keeps me in the past. removing my energy is my sacrifice in hopes that one day, I won’t need to return, as this too will be a memory.

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

honestly yes

If I’m toxic in your life because of my lack of consistency— cut me off. Assert those boundaries. I love that for you whoever needs to do that and I don’t blame them. I’m not consistent and despite how much I try to change, it’s not natural. So, I take no offense if it’s necessary.

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

in the many hours of the day my single body has endured various versions of my internal and the words and actions that proceed are characterized by the moment endured. shifting words and behaviors to fit the mold of the minute transitioning from high frequency to indifference. the ability to witness my own fluctuation and caress every change with ease is my protection— my perfection. to continually maximize my strength through loving every persona that occurs releasing the need to understand and deciding to just be. how dull would it be to be the same always anyways.

[marianaeq]

[marianaeq]

"always the poet, but never the poem"

hits hard when you realise, how you portray each individual as an ethereal being. each one is a blank canvas, an incomplete cathedral waiting to be painted and built with intricate details. you look at every small thing with is invisible to eyes, that don't appreciate the beauty of nothing. your mind always making up the most beautiful poetry, with just one glance at the potential blank page.

but what you don't know that, your poetry is a direct reflection of you. your beautiful thoughts, make up for your remarkable beauty. maybe that is why poets are forever immortalized.