i miss your sanity.

the sound of the vacuum in the hallway on sunday mornings. the smell of coffee at 6 am. the vivid expressions in your eyes as you told a story in great detail. the warmth of your smile.

i miss your sanity.

before you were overtaken, like an encumbered mule on a hot, desert road, you finally gave in to the burdens of your past and were swallowed hole. the vacuum stopped, the coffee cold.

i miss your sanity.

i hate the way my jaw clenches when i think of it. i hate the way i keep pretending it will go back to normal. i cling so tightly to the "normal" days that i am battered by the new-normal days, the every day where your words are a box cutter and my existence a canvas for you to rip open, pour over, and destroy.

i miss your sanity.

i took reliability for granted. i took love and support for granted. despite repeated utterances of thanks and praise, you were still torn from yourself and the two halves of your whole are divided; and the familiar side disappears, like a shroud or a veil, you are no longer who i knew.

For every yesterday lives tomorrow, but in between exists such an insatiable hunger for stability that never existed. Fickle is nostalgia; our sweet and loving brains could never undrestand that the moments of unbridled joy are no longer reality and never have been. But rather, reality is something stuck on repeat as history plays itself again and again, in a much less public space.

the waves of your petals raise my hand to my head

and i can finally feel the vibrant sunlight--

pushing through the dark clouds of winter's

chill -- the delicate dance of magic and mystery

as spring springs again -- and with each

passing year i almost forget, every time,

just how lovely the scent of flowers,

how calming the warm breeze,

how nourishing the grass

as it wiggles between

my toes.

The two collide into one another, papers flying, scalding coffee sloshing over the side of the cup.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" I shriek, bending down to pick up the scattered pages of my folder.

"It's okay. I'm so clumsy. Here, let me refill your coffee. Sugar?" the stranger replies.

"No thanks, just black."

"Just how I like it," she says with a wink.

I finished gathering my things, splotches of coffee dabbing my pant legs, and sat down at an empty table. She returned with a full cup.

"I hope you don't mind, I emptied half of it and filled it up with hot, fresh coffee. I'm weird, I like my coffee scalding and just assume everyone does," she smiles, pushing her dark hair off her face.

"No that's great. That's how I like mine too. I usually end up microwaving the same cup of coffee over and over again at work." We laughed simultaneously.

"Me too! Until it's all old and... I don't know, tastes like..."

"Burnt popcorn?" I offer.

"Yeah! Exactly! May I?" she gestures toward the empty chair at my table. I wave her down. "My name is Kelsea, with a K."

"Oh, that'll be easy. I'm Chelsea, with a C." I extended a hand. "Formal handshake."

"What do you do for work, Chelsea with a C?"

"I work an office job. It's a strange transition from my old job."

"Me too. I used to work nights at a restaurant. Now I'm all...isolated in an office. Working mornings... It's been a transition for me as well," she looks as if she is gazing through me.

Kelsea continues, "I have gone to school my entire life. And now that I have a..."career" in the field I spent so much time and money on, I don't know... I feel... cheated?"

I looked over her features. They practically mirrored my own. Dark eyes. Dark, straight hair. Slender frame. Smaller than average wrists. Long, nimbly fingers. She laughed nervously, too loudly, when I didn't respond right away.

"I'm sorry, this is just so strange. I just had the exact same crisis. I graduate about a year ago. Thirty thousand in debt, over 20 years of schooling behind me, I got a job in the field that I was studying. Everything thinks it's my dream job. Like it was tailored to me. And you know, they're right. I think. I just feel, unfulfilled somehow. I got really depressed for a while... I'm coming out of it, I think."

She looked thoughtfully at me. I could tell that she, too, was beginning to notice the similarities in our appearance. She subtley grabbed a lock of her hair and pulled it into her frame of vision, coyly glancing back at mine.

"I'm sorry, C, but like... do we have the exact same hair color or what?"

I laughed, too loud, "Pretty close at least!"

"It's the exact same! Anyway... what did you do? Do you still feel... unfulfilled?"

"A bit, yeah. Being the studious bee I have always been, I turned to research to understand why I felt the way that I did. I found the concept of Dark Night of the Soul, a sort of extistential lapse that many of us experience throughout our lives, sometimes several times over. I began to identify that I was in the throes of Existential Depresssion, losing my ability to motivate, inspire, or move toward anything because it all felt pointless."

She nodded, "Like it's almost just not worth trying?" Her gaze dropped solemnly to the floor. "Not worth living."

She startled at the realization of what she had just said out loud.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I mean, I'm not like.... you know..." she looked frantically through me again, focusing intently on the wall behind my forehead.

"No it's okay," I assured her. "I felt the same way, Kels. Just two weeks ago. I didn't want to do it anymore. I had been trying everything. Reading, writing, meditating, breathing exercises, research, studying, music, exercising, supplements, eating well, spending time with friends, less screen time, counseling, self-care... I was doing everything I was "supposed" to be doing, and yet, I still woke up miserable and went to bed sobbing."

Obviously exasperated, Kelsea breathed deeply, waiting for me to continue, "So, what did you do?"

"I stopped trying." She looked displeased.

"I mean, I stopped trying to fix everything. I didn't stop doing good things for myself. I just stopped trying to feel better immediately. I always have craved instant gratification. Something that immediately remedies the situation. I am problem solver. That's why I was so good in school. I had a conversation with my partner. He said, 'Well, maybe stop trying so hard to fix it.' Of course, I was flustered. 'How?! That's like telling me to stop acting like myself...' I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea. It took a day or so, but it finally sunk in."

She gazed reflectively into her coffee for a moment. "Just... stop... trying so hard, huh? But how do I not?"

"Keep trying, in life. But don't try to change how you're feeling all the time. I was fighting it so much. Fighting the feelings of death and dread and disappointment. Of feeling forever stagnated, stuck and complacent. Instead, I just kind of accept how it is, and it honestly feels better, Kels."

"I guess that makes sense. Kind of. I don't know. I mean, how did you do?"

"By simply not doing it. It sounds vague and counter-intuitive, but it's not. Genuinely accepting where you are at in life is the only way to overcome this existential depression. Did you know that's what killed Robin Williams?"

"My god. If he can't get through it..."

"It's speculation, but he was depressed. He was successful, rich, and depressed. No one is immune to it."

Her dark eyes found mine for the first time. She immediately averted them back to whatever wall or person lay beyond my head.

"I guess I've have to let it sink it. Just don't try to fight it. Don't try to fight it."

"Cheers to that," and I raised my coffee mug up to her. She tipped hers toward me and took a slow sip.

"Ugh," she laughed, "It's luke warm."

i have a series of unfinished projects that i gaze upon with hope and optimism. they never linger in the back of my mind--they compartmentalize themselves into tiny drawers, which are conveniently filled with more ideas and storylines. it’s so incredibly pleasant to have that sort of security within myself and my creative prowess.

what’s more, is that i am just a naturally organized person. my car, bedroom, and home are all very neat and orderly and i feel so at peace when i am amidst the pile of laundry that...never...seems...to...stop...building...itself...up....but my gratitude for having clothes supercedes my inability to fold them. so i suppose it’s a nice place to be.

stability comes easily to me. i rarely have to work on my mental health in order to feel sound and rational. i have an uncanny way of understanding exactly why i feel, what i feel, when i feel it. i have never felt isolated and misunderstood for my emotions, nor have i ever felt the need to be more in control. in fact, more often than not, i have complete control over myself, my emotions, my mental health, and my drinking habits.

I often find that when prompted to do things, my mind almost always naturally goes blank. It's as if I have never heard a song, seen a movie, or written anything down, ever in my life.

For instance, as instructed, I am sharing whatever comes to my mind. However fortunate or otherwise, I am unable to think of anything aside from the immediate stream-of-consciousness that burbles and baubles out from the very tips of my fingers.

And these moments of blank-eted nothingness never come at an appropriate time. But rather, they only come when there is an underlying level of pressure to perform. But never when I request a silenced mind, oh no, that is when I am at my creative peak.

But creativity that comes spurting out, unpromptedly, can result in a gobbledup smoosh-like smatter than hardly has any relevance, to neither yourself nor others. So from this, you can begin to deduce that I am at quite a stand-still in my writing capabilities as of late.

I lack any sort of pre-thought, fore-thought, sub-thought, or after-thought that is not

just rather, untimely--

to say the least.

And thus I have never found myself very good at trivia.

the bitterness of a flower petal

is unmatched by both it’s

beauty

and

fragrance.

this unfortunate irony only exists

in a dichotomous world such as our own.

and in another place i imagine

lives a daisy whose fragrance

is more palatable than the

one you gave me.

-CLC