• This Too Shall Pass

    My lover and I were discussing at length, each other’s careers. In my case study, librarianship found me, as opposed to me finding it. Since my system is public-facing, there are times when the stress level can get beyond controllable. I find that the post-Covid (some say current) era has bred an underground pandemic of its own. Brain rot. A decrease in mental capacity certainly floods the airwaves. Tolerance levels are at an all time low. A patron may be having a bad day, and take it out on the workers. But, long gone are the days of pushing through the pain, as the server. You now find yourself reflecting back at them, or extreme lengths, abandoning ship entirely. Controllable emotions are now lost on either side.

    Last summer, I experienced a creative renaissance. What became of my life, after the push that sent me over the edge, was nothing short of magnificent. Now looking back, I plead to God “give me those times again”. Low tolerance, which I had even before 2020, sunk into my chest and my head this year. This affects my ability to think, and in turn, write. My way of translating the world into my own words, had slowly began to become lost in translation inside my own rotting corpse concurrently. This year has been a hard one, so was 2020, so was 2016. I guess for me, it comes in 4s. 4 is an unlucky number in a lot of cultures. Better brace myself for 2028. Sometimes, I humor myself, even in the bleakest of ways.

    This Too Shall Pass.


    Syd N’ Sam 

    When my grandma said she had names for her selves 

    For which reminded me of books on the shelves 

    I knew from then on, 

    My mind cannot be quelled 

    When my grandma ask God for Him to take her 

    And died a week later  

    I knew from then on, 

    Words had power 

    When my grandma called for me under anesthetic 

    And told me everything was copacetic 

    I knew from then on, 

    Life may destroy me, but can’t defeat me 

    I just won’t let it.

      


    Poem Written on September 16th, 2024.

    (Slowly but surely getting out of my funk, tortured artist mode deactivate, until we meet again!)

    ⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

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  • Something Different

    In another universe, perhaps the inverse of this very one, my name would be Gwen. Not Gwendolyn, simply, Gwen. Is she your local witch, or she simply found that earth tones are hers to keep. That bohemian muse for which I seek out of a place that has long snuffed out any trace of panoramic prosperity. As I to, must respect the title that was gifted to me by my mother, father, and Lord, so be it. I am Sydney in this timeline, maybe Gwen the next, perhaps Daphne in another. Hence, my soul never changes.

    Prose poetry, poetic prose, déjà vu. Something to share, silence is deafening.


    . . .