Author: Sophia Falco

I stole the wand of that magician to try to fix this embodiment of the feeling of brokenness. How can it be possible to embody something not whole? Unlike shards of glass that litters the ground, he hit his autographed baseball (the autographer deceased so it was cursed anyways) through her window. She told me I’m the only one who can fix myself whereas I am never broken, but I have started to believe her—perhaps “defeated” is the better word.

What a feat it is to be alive in this world. This world isn’t surrounded by walls that can collapse on me, but it feels like the space I take up is becoming smaller and smaller, and that the world is winning. Yes, there are man-made walls, and I want to build a wall to separate her, and my life—to cut off all that pain—please don’t let me see the color red.

This is not fair yet life is not fair. I said, I’ve fallen and picked myself up time and time again, but really I don’t want to freefall anymore while lying on the ground. To fall is not freedom. Falling. My freedom is taken out from under me. There’s no magic carpet, but instead the ground quivering and shaking. Shaking like my body when I burst into tears.

These tears are light, but embody heaviness. If I try to catch a tear, it will lose its shape and become not three-dimensional anymore. 3D to 2D to the number two as in, two people fighting upstream, but she kicks up sediment from the bottom making it hard for me to see clearly the way out, and the way up.

I don’t want you to think lesser of me. I don’t want to let you down. Maybe I don’t want to let myself down, and of course, to not drown in sadness. This sadness comes and sticks to me like the bubble gum once pink now turned black to the bottom of my worn-down running shoes—can’t you see I’m tired? Tired of these moods, tired of what my physical body does to my psyche.

The word “defeat” looming in the back of my head like the decades old redwood tree whose limbs have reached to the forefront of my mind that are just residing behind my third eye ready to poke its greenery out, but I think that then this greenery would be subject to the elements.

The elements a part of a whole—what is whole in this world? Pain breaks branches—these branches. The tree caught fire whose branches are smoldering and turning black—cut off—we’re in our separate corners. Ash now littering the ground that soon the wind will sweep up. It did, and it swirled around my feet like a mini tornado and then out of sight. The physical ties vanished—the magician—blame it on him, but really blame it on suffering. Too much and I’ve had enough.

How to proceed from here? How to lift one foot up then the other instead of shuffling my feet like the shuffling of cards—the hand I was dealt—these cards, as if made of lead, heavy. How to lift that heaviness? My hands can still write.

Write to find the right way out.

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