Nothingness

Let it die
Solemn words erupt from the speakers of my phone, appropriately,
sitting next to me
by two glasses of water
an old lamp
and a box of tissues

Nothing grounds me more than writing does
a place I go when I need therapy
like hot water boiling over
making a mess
rushing over to take it off the stove.

These days I am listless
nothing really makes sense
I'm either lost in a short-lived crying spell
or consumed by subtle bouts of fear
of what ensues from periods of deliberate nothingness.

Nothingness being my current plan of action
To shift from a state of everythingness, big and bright,
to a partly intentional sheet of grey
a canvas perhaps, white and blank
with a few streaks of pink or purple
it's not all un-lively, you know.

But the truth is that it's very hard to be a habitual non-stopper
an addict of achievement
a chronic over-thinker
a frenetic go-getter
and force yourself to slow things down.

It's hardly forcing, though, when you simply become incapable of things
It's more of a rewiring of sorts
a re-evaluation of ways
a set of questions you begin to ask
seeking answers from places you've never been.

I'm tip-toeing carefully
walking forwards and backwards at the same time
I feel like a zamboni driver
resurfacing all the scratches
the places that need smoothing
a little bit of care
attention to detail
a revitalization of passions left behind in the pursuit of success
a redefining of what makes me truly happy
in the first place.