Retrograde Dissociation Telegram Posts

I'll grant you the softness of a rose's petal when you need it.

The freedom of the cotton clouds roaming the sky with your dreams when you need it.

The unrestrained joy of the flowing rivers when you need it, because you need it.

I pray the years have taught me how to be consoled by the love that floats and flies on this earth instead of hurting myself claiming its not mine alone.

Letters to Milena

Letters to Milena

Who Had I Been Fooling?

I sat at a table across from sins.
I watched all that was done and displayed,
in the acts of things I said I could never be,
I was the great spectator.
I told myself that as long as I kept my heart right,
it didn't matter what my eyes saw.

Across the table from sins I sat.
I heard all that was spoken,
in the words that had wounded my ears,
I was a keen listener.
I told myself that as long as I still could
discern from right and wrong,
it didn't matter what I heard.

I sat at a table across from sins.
I participated in the laughter and
words that were spoken,
in the sight of things I disagreed with,
I was a distinct participant.
I told myself that as long as I kept my composure
and only said a few that were right,
it didn't matter where I was.

What had I known to have been certain
I knew right from wrong?
Who was I to have said
it hadn't mattered?
How long had I lived to have believed
I was already who I could be?

The moment I proceeded my way out,
that which I experienced
was all my mind began playing.
And when I spoke,
the words didn't sound like mine.
And when I began to think,
my thoughts were stringed to all
I've seen.
And when I began to act,
it was the things I never thought
I could do.

The truths I knew became blurred with uncertainty.
I became certain on perhaps
and probability.

Only I knew how much I had
been affected.
But I had to go on pretending
that I hadn't become the things
I was surrounded by.
I told myself that as long as I didn't have to show it,
it didn't matter who I've become.

— Myra

Did one shrink birthing another,
Did one fly leaving its shadow,
Did one stay shedding its skin,
Or did both die leaving her hollow?

How do I fill this existence with a song on repeat, chorusing, "It does matter!" "It does matter!"?

How do I single out my focus on me, turning it inward, making every other object a celestial one?

How do I cut these invisible strings and move with the fluidity of the wind?

And how do I create a path made just for me, one that tells my feet with every step that this is where I'm supposed to tread, and awaits in the end my desires in their full glory?