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“Sometimes when things are falling apart, they may actually be falling into place.” — Chinua Achebe (📙 Things Fall Apart)
Sometimes, everything is just too much
when your lungs feel so full of smoke and debris that every breath feels — laboured, and the baggage under your bloodshot eyes pulls you down — into a heap on the bathroom floor so you can cry rivers alone without making a sound before you drown
Sometimes, everything is just too much
and you can’t face another Monday morning rush of eating your words through gritted teeth, and you lack sufficient middle fingers or fucks to give, but — you’re just hanging on to a sense of hope in your bones, a subconscious memory from the stardust in your veins of the precise implosions the Universe had to go through to create you here, right now — in this place
Sometimes, everything is just too much
as you stare blankly at the spectacle of your child in a tantrum and wonder if these parenting moments are punishment for some unrepentant sins, you forget that becoming something from something — will test you beyond measure, and what feels like devolving is actually evolving still, and fistfuls of chaos — is just a part of the deal
