I Have Covid. Lovely. I Didn't Get It During The Pandemic But This Is Awful, I Woke Up At Four Am Not

They say write what you know so I will. I want to tell the story of loss and hope. How quickly everything can fall apart , how you can be looking at misery and then suddenly living inside it. How hopes and dreams are a shield against dirty looks but they don't protect your cold hands or feet in the winter months.

I want to tell the story of the forgotten, the ignored. The people sitting against storefronts that are always asked to move move where?

I want to tell the story of the tired, the burdened. The children raising their siblings while their parents buy more scratch cards because maybe this time we'll win some money will they snap out of it then?

I want to tell the story of the desperate, the lost. The young person that left everything behind , that sits in cafes but never orders. That uses the free WiFi to check social media accounts of old friends, but can never bring themselves to do so, afraid that they realise they've been forgotten how much longer can I can they hide?

What story do you want to tell?

A lot of the time I don't feel like I've matured past 16. I still feel just as scared and even more lonely. They say your twenties are when you'll feel more steady, but I feel like I'm being swung into space and there I float suffocating in the void.

Each year I have a new resolution and I can't help but have another. For the past four years it was to have enough food to eat, for a bed to sleep on instead of the hard floor, for my mother( where ever she may be) to be okay. This year I want to feel like a bird let out a cage, I want to shed the apathy from me, I want to peel back a layer and expose myself to all sorts of possibilities, I want to feel the heat of it on new skin. I want to live, not just survive, here's to 2025.

I saw @two-bees-poetry lady macbeth/macbeth poem 🌷and became inspired to try this format called (an okayish first attempt but a fun challenge) contrepulate poetry.

I sat outside on a wall across the pub. My dad was inside. I hadn't spoken to him in ten years. But I had seen him through pub windows and passed by him as he smoked in doorways more than a few times. Once I heard him sharply inhale, coughing as cigarette smoke choked him when I passed, but reached out he did not and neither did I.

It was summer, the air was warm and still, the daffodils had fully bloomed. I don't know how long I sat there, but I know it started to get dark and the streets emptied. Someone in the pub put on Sweet Caroline, everyone inside sang it with all the energy of a football chant, I hummed along to the chorus looking at the sky as it changed from blue to pink to black. I sang I'll be fine (I know now those aren't the lyrics) even though I felt so alone in that moment, I was adrift, I was waiting. And I'd waited long enough. But how could I stop. It was all I had.

I kept my eyes fixed on the door for awhile, then the stars, then back to door blinking against the tears gathering at the edges of my vision. I wanted to take off my shoes and rest my feet on the cool pavement, I wanted to feel rooted in something other than my loneliness, my sadness, but I didn't. Instead I quietly sang along to Sweet Caroline, sang about hands reaching out and felt more alone than ever, felt an ache settle deep and heavy into my bones, i suppose I was rooted by my feelings after all.

I'm not sure why I stayed there, was it in the hope that he'd spot me, rush out, hold me close and say it's going to be okay now , dads here or was it a punishment mixed with self pity. All I know is I couldn't bring myself to go inside but also didn't want to hide. The song ended and the stars above looked on in indifference.

Then a man walked passed. I got ready for a suggestive remark or something similar. there are some streets in my city as there are in most around the world, where women line dark alleyways and men in cars roll down their windows and ask how much, and if you happen to be a women walking alone in those areas you might get asked if your working tonight. So I was prepared for something along those lines, I was prepared to politely smile and get my keys ready between my knuckles if needed. He paused for a moment.

"Are you alright love?" he asked, his voice quiet and concerned.

With the relief came the overwhelming need to tell him the truth, to spill everything to this stranger, to tell him that no I wasn't alright, I was deeply not okay and the heavy feeling has been following me around for so long I dont know how to live without it, instead I indulge in it, I give it a place at the dinner table, I drink it with every meal and tuck it close to my heart every night, I use it as a substitute for a lullaby. But I couldn't , I didn't.

I flashed him a quick smile , the most hollow thing you could imagine, the only thing I could muster. it was just something I did to get him to walk away. "Yeah, I'm good thanks".

He didn't walk away, he stood there with eyes so caring I was afraid they'd make everything I was holding in unravel in a messy pile at our feet. "Are you sure, really?" he knew I wasn't, my sad shining eyes didn't help.

I shook my head slightly, another quick smile "I'm sure."

I haven't really got much outside of this, and this is just me speaking to everyone and no one all at once, it feels shallow. I was going to say I felt just as shallow, almost empty but that's not really true, if anything I feel like I'm about to burst, I'm filled with so much longing and hope and just want, I just want so badly. For more laughter, more connection, just more. There really is nothing like the small moments you share with your loved ones, those inside jokes that leave you folded over and cackling loudly, while strangers judge you at the social absurdity, but it only makes you laugh harder. Or those times at school you'd ask me to draw on your hand because you liked the sensation and then you'd play with my hair, you'd braid it. I feel ravenous for those moments. So maybe what I really feel is hunger.

I'll do it on Monday. I'll do it on Tuesday. I'll do it on Wednesday. I'll do it on Thursday. I'll do it on Friday. I'll do it on Saturday. I'll do it on Sunday. I'll do it on Mon–and the cycle continues and nothing changes.

you don't have to post this or respond to this ( and I don't even know if this will get to you cause tumblr ask boxes are dumb), but I saw your Jan 12 post and I just wanted to tell you to hang in there. know that you are seen and cared for (even if it's just us randoms on tumblr). your number isn't getting pushed back. the line's just a little longer than you realize. the sun will come out for you soon <3

(p.s. feel free to ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable / you think it's useless, but I'm praying for you random tumblr stranger. )

This kind messege was hiding in my ask box amongst alot of troll asks and I'm so touched. Anon, thank you for this. I'll keep what you said in mind, I really appreciate you taking the time to send this, I'm sorry I found it so long after you sent it. It means alot, I'm asking the universe to send you joy and there's nothing random about you , you're very kind💛

Sometimes I think the dreams are either alternate versions of me or another person completely and I'm just hopping along in their life that night.

I had a dream I was a woman working in a book store but this woman was not me. I've had this dream before over a decade ago, same woman, same bookstore. She now has her own office so she's doing well since the last dream, she seemed happy, fulfilled. I woke and felt motivated to do something with my life. Maybe visit a books store, maybe I'd see her in the women checking out books, Maybe I'd one day see myself with my own book adorning the shelfs.

I wonder if she dreams of me, I wonder what she sees. Am I a recurring dream, the Young women that prefers to stay curled up, that never went out with friends and now lives half in a world of pretend. Does she see me lay in bed, lost but searching, waiting but hiding. Am I a nightmare. Does she wake confused and heavy and think thankgod that's not me.

Am I only ever meant to dream of what could have been.