Empty Envelopes.🤍

trigger warning: scattered feelings.

towards the end of last month, i experienced a pain that just couldn’t be rationalised. at least, not in a literary sense. i grew desperate to write about my rage; to command a mountain of the anguish that had washed over me. after convincing myself of its futility, i felt it too late. my voice and character had been silenced. i was burnt to smithereens by reflexive shame.

one of the most jarring requests, was being asked to hold space for something that wanted to execute me entirely. how does one write about this, without being told that their anger needs to be responsible? after nights of emotional turmoil, i found myself suffocating in that judgement. to borrow a line from Franny Choi, ‘Somewhere, there is a version of myself that isn’t neck-deep in her invented filth’. filth, that was the word. i felt dirty. like a dog, like a little girl. and though i find solace in her words, i see the process of it all to be nautically reminiscent of Ahab, in search of his whale. this anguish has metabolic layers. it requires an energy that contains its own willing capacity to be drained. but do i have it in me? i’m not so sure anymore.

as the oscillation between exhaustion and rage grows dormant, i want to give myself permission to write and then again, not to write. i want to feed cathartically from my emotions but sit idly in them too. this is the best that i can do for myself right now. December may feel the same for you, or those you know, but it’s only a season. i’ve deluded myself into that conclusion for us all.

thank you for being here. please do share your encounter with December so far. let me know how it’s going <3

🎵:

God Turn Me Into a Flower by Weyes Blood

Rain In My Favourite House by Keaton Henson

excerpt from the poem: ‘I Guess By Now I Thought I’d Be Done With Shame’ by Franny Choi.