In A While
Feb. 17th • Written by M.A.
About the Poem: The temporary affliction of the loss of motivation and the blessing of guidance.
I haven’t counted the number of steps it takes to walk to the train station in a while, I think to myself as I leave for my first class.
I used to love counting.
I haven’t dreamt in a while, I think to myself as I slouch in a corner seat of a yet-to-be crowded subway cart, ever so gently drifting into a daze of complete nothingness.
I used to love dreaming.
I haven’t pondered in a while, I think to myself as I take, what I consider to be, a meaningless quiz. After all, everything is meaningless now.
I used to love having meaning.
Mind-numb.
Heart aches.
Blood dries.
Stomach growls.
I haven’t eaten in a while, I think to myself as I unlock the door to my place.
I used to love preparing.
I haven’t read in a while, I think to myself as I lay face-down on my unmade bed. I need to read-it’ll cure me. But the words aren’t so easy anymore. Nothing, it seems, is easy anymore.
Where is my mind? And why isn’t it here?
Where is my heart? And why can’t I feel it?
Where is my soul? And why isn’t it embodying life?
Fishing for the wings of a bird in a lake of fish, isn’t like catching gills in a sky full of birds. I think to myself as I gasp for air.
You’re too far under.
Flesh in hand, I press.
Release.
The color leaves my skin.
The color returns.
The vanity of self doubt dipped in the regret of wasted time vanishes.
Silence, as it sounds in the sweetest part of the night, fills my room.
The kind of silence that can only be heard when awake.
That can be heard after the jolting of the limbs and the loss of breath.
That can be heard lulling the buzz of the mind.
Amidst this silence, the quietest thoughts of lingering hope are heard.
Familiar, I listen.
“Count,” it asserts.
“Dream,” it reveals.
“Prepare,” it warns.
“Remember,” it concludes.
The humility of recognition accompanies me.
It replaces the metal anvil on my chest with a cotton bag filled with letters.
Read.