Need

I want you to know that I have grown used to the lines by my eyes. They are mine. When I see them now, I do not startle.  

Recognition.

I want you to know that the robots let me go. I tried to call The New Yorker to bargain down my subscription renewal. Instead, I was greeted with a robot voice. Instead of connecting me with a human representative, it cancelled my subscription and ended the call.

Goodbye.

I want you to know that it can flip like a switch. Topics that consume so much energy, anticipation, intrigue... all the bigs, at any moment, can become nearly repulsive.  I do not want to hear one more word about it. Unsubscribe from the podcasts. Close the blinds. Cancel the library holds. And all that rejection leaves a massive nothing and a dull ache in its wake.  Filled in the rabbit hole. Staring at dirt. 

Next.

I want you to know that the past doesn't hold me with much of a grip. I remember some things in flashes, but mostly the fog has settled in. Large stretches of the day-to-day details of the only life I will live, lost to chicken scratch journals under the bed.  I had shed my skin many times now.  

Grow.

I want you to know that if you build it, you can live there. If you are ready, it will greet you in dreams. It will show up again and again and delight you every time. It will find you if you become still. Make space. If you sit calmly beside the restless achy part and do not try to fix it or ask it to leave, you will hear it. Listen.

You have everything you need.