Something broke inside me about a year and a half ago.
I don’t like to talk about it—but I broke.
A cog in my system came loose, and very quickly my hardwiring went
It was brief .
Just a month or two and then I started to get better, fractionally.
Slowly the fuses flickered on and the wheels started turning and then
suddenly I didn’t feel like dying anymore, and that felt better than the way it feels to feel like dying, and so I labeled myself “fixed”.
And ever since, I’ve been living a subconscious life.
Half doing and happy to be half doing and happy to be happy.
And most of the pieces that exploded out of me,
the way hot glass does when cold water is poured into it,
they found their place and reconfigured themselves,
without me even asking them to.
But when I broke, I lost my dreams.
I lost them hard.
And I can see them, and feel them and taste them, but it’s a taste I’ve forgotten to like, because I’ve been so focused on wanting to be better, that I forgot that there are better things than being better.
But I want them back now.
I want them back the way my mom wanted me to go to college and the way 15-Year-Old-Molly wanted a boyfriend.
I want my plans, and my laughs, and my friends, and my goofy back.
I want my recklessness back
And my restlessness back and
I want to sit and write and write and write and write and dream and dream of wanting more dreams and wonder where the hell I’m going to put all my dreams because there are too many dreams and I want to be scared of my dreams but in a way that excites me, not makes me want to break again
And I haven’t wanted this in a long time.
A very very very long time.