I cried myself into a giant pool of used tissue and I hoped that I would die there.
The growth that is required of me has seem to become unbearable and the thought of moving past these feelings doesn’t cross my mind.
I don’t know how to be and how to navigate this world and I don’t know if I ever will.
It’s the core of my frustration.
I want to know.
I want to find the yellow brick road of my own path and just sail along it while someone else drives, or pulls me.
Either way I don’t want to do the work to walk it once I get there, because I am exhausted.
I think it’s the lack of truth, the lack of justice.
The lack.
In a world that “is abundant” we seem to be running out.
Looking for life on Mars, looking for nice guys, looking for a face that’s real and recognizable. We are abundant, in lies.
I never envisioned the world to be this way towards me. When I was a child I believed everything outside of my house was here to bring me support and magic. That the flowers and trees held secrets and wishes to worlds that I’m now seeing maybe only exists on a screen. Everything seems to only exist on a screen, in fact I’m not sure what people’s lives are actually like beyond it. Maybe that’s because we all wanted the magic, so we use our phones and our computers to make it. We glue together fragile pieces to create our new selves and we put them out into the world to say “look I found the magic! Me! I found it” and then the rest of us feel mundane.
I feel mundane, and it makes me want to die, lonely and smothered by my tissues.
About the Creator
Kendal Thompson
Singer-songwriter & self care advocate living in Toronto, Ontario Canada. All of my feelings and stories of my journey and personal growth written in their many forms right here on the internet ✌🏻
IG: @kendal.thompson
www.kendalthompson.ca
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In my own skin.
Out of the many tattoos I have imprinted on my skin, the ones linked to my parents seem to catch the most attention. The curiosity they spark always makes me laugh a little since my parents, like most, were the only ones against me getting tattoos in the first place. To be honest, I actually would have never placed myself as someone to get tattoos dedicated to their parents, but as my fathers health declined in 2007, a need for closeness within my family unit was sparked in me.
By Kendal Thompson4 years ago in Families
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
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