I’m writing to you from a messy house. The vacuum from when I cleaned the floors earlier this evening is still plugged in. I’m not sure why I left it. Perhaps the floors felt incomplete or I promised myself I would return to the task after I sat down to write.
Everything is half-thoughts, half-sentences. My brain can’t complete a full circle; I wonder if it’s scared. The feelings are too heavy, as soon as I find myself leaning in, I lean back out, divert off the trail, dive into the nearest bush and hide. A new feeling arises, something else entirely, and I embrace it for a moment, a welcomed reprieve. But eventually that feeling becomes too heavy too. And so the process repeats.
All day I’ve been wondering about what it means to carry heavy feelings for longer than a moment. We’ve become so good at this, so accustomed to wearing the weight of the world around our shoulders like a springtime cardigan. The heavy feelings have become a part of us—feeling…
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