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Helen Keller
Q: What would she be doing right now if she was alive today? A: Scratching at the inside of her coffin.
in honor of 'Repeat Day', June 3, here's to the miracle worker, Anne Sullivan, in so many ways
in the common world, there is not room to be normal. in a place where nobody is special, everyone wants to be extraordinary. where everyone hates the everyman strives to be. everyman strives to be. every man strives to be. but nobody is listening now. can't hear thunder in an echo. punishment from the pedestal on the hill. i am high and they are mighty, legendary. but i am legend. and everyman knows that every man shits and every man dies, but legends never bite the dust. they are made of ghosts, mass graves of the everyman all around me, everyman living dead inside, buried before their time. doing what Helen Keller would be if she was alive today.
in honor of 'Repeat Day', June 3, here's to the miracle worker, Anne Sullivan, in so many ways
About the Creator
⸘jason alan‽
:::WARNING:::
i am only responsible for what i say
:::WARNING:::
not for what you understand
:::WARNING:::
you may learn to be charmed by my [secret‽] discontent
:::WARNING:::
or you may not
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar6 days ago in Feast
Comments (1)
Interesting and delicious content, keep posting more.