9.23.25 // The Depth

I miss the depth.
.
I miss sharing anything and everything that poetically crossed my mind. Feelings pouring from my fingers, quickly crossing keys like milk dying to be spilled — if only to be seen and not forgotten, left on a door in a fridge seldom opened, or sinking like salt into an ocean too wide to notice.
.
Two years ago, I stopped sharing as much because my internal world felt too heavy, too hard to address. After that time, I told myself I was too much. ​And when I did express a little of those feelings, those poetic musings in my heart, I was met with messages: “What’s wrong?” or “Look at the positives!”
.
But for me, it was never about the solutions. I told a friend the other day, “When I used to write more vulnerably, it was pieces of me never fully put together, pouring out in hopes of understanding what I would look like if I were all put together.”
.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be put together, if it’ll ever be sunshine and rainbows and ease on the inside — even if that’s what flows so seamlessly on the outside. It’s hard to explain how much dichotomy lives inside of me. Neither part is less real, but almost impossible to describe, let alone live. I’ve been told both sides can’t be real — comments like “fake” cast for the outside, and “dramatic” for the in.
.
It’s easier to let one side go quiet. And let’s be honest, the heavier, more complex, sadder, angrier parts of ourselves are often seen as a threat — a challenge to life as we know it — even though they are such an incredible part of being human, of experiencing a life that will never be fully at ease.
.
But I miss the version of myself that wasn’t trying to be wrapped in a perfect, pretty bow, all silver linings, but instead let my own broken shards be sharp without needing to cut deep. I miss letting myself be the heavy feeling, hopeless, romantic, broken-hearted little girl — the one with her pieces never perfectly aligning in something palatable, but always perfectly aligning in something that was her.