Ashlandsblog

There’s a miasma of the self I can’t escape. Every so often, I return back to myself at an alarming pace. It’s almost like no change or transformation has ever taken place. To me though, it’s like being healed again. Mended back to my younger self, a self that could willingly and naturally be unreasonably upset or irritable. On days like those, my family would bend the knees. Friends alike and any around my radius, tormented by my sullen demeanour. Any sage to cast away the purple clouds of despair that at times befall someone helplessly hopeful. 

So the people that have seen me bright might wonder why the Ash they’ve come to know, eager to tease, and sweet talk his way to your cup full, seems like he’s deep in the ocean, rid of thirst for next few lifetimes? That’s the real me. I’m afflicted by vastness, not a lack of anything. Permission slips to do whatever the hell stacked in my back pocket. I’m further away from touching my toes the closer I get. Because I’m hardwired to turn to back into myself. Displeased and unaffected, what once was clear skies, is all dark with cracks of light. And I name those cracks after people I know who remind me of days past.

When I meet these people, all of you, I am again reminded of a time I can be wilful and unreasonable, and like the days when I had a village of people to be street lights to my escape from solitude, I turn to you. And this disclosure, the only sign of some gratitude.