you are told to mediate by those who don’t know their center. .
you have gripped the side of the sink for balance more times than you can remember. you don’t remember the last time love felt pure in your veins, as you touch the tattoo you got for your grandmother. Often you wonder if you make her roll over in her grave. That doesn’t help. You really hope not. .
You try to meditate. Your mind is preoccupied with its own dichotomy. You had to get off the 6 last week because your lungs were more crushed than the people jammed into the car. How can one breathe if one forgets how? You hear people around you, but they’re a million miles away compared to your heart pounding in your chest. Eliot’s human voices waking you to drown. .
You try writing instead. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t. She doesn’t like your writing. She doesn’t get it. Rightfully so, you don’t really get her. And perhaps she doesn’t get you either. You take a break to meditate but it’s useless. Your storm has broken the sails already, and you are too far from shore. You remember a day in Madrid where you got lost in the streets. You remind yourself you found your way. .
You try writing some more. It flows easier now because you reminded yourself you were human. Purging your words is better than reflecting on them in your mind. Your room is covered with half-written notes, your phone and conversations are splattered with poetry. You are still tired, but now from laughing. Still from life, but you have remembered to laugh more. She still doesn’t get your writing. That still doesn’t matter.
You forgot to meditate.
You wrote instead.