Not knowing
I don't quite know what this is about.
Not knowing is the worst.
Not knowing why, or if, or when.
And hope—cloaked in possibility—
is so deceptive.
All these little stories we tell ourselves
about how we will survive,
how we are strong,
how we will be better,
how we can do it.
Lies, all of them.
Lies we water with the tears
we cry into our pillows at night.
But at some point, I suppose,
the lies become real—
because whatever is watered,
even with salt water,
grows over time.
And the creeping foliage
protects the crumbling walls beneath.
Soon the vines are the only things
holding up the cracks.
When things get tough, we tell ourselves something hopeful just to get through, even if it feels like a lie at first. But if we keep holding onto it, it slowly becomes real, and that’s what gives us the strength to move forward. Maybe that’s how we survive, by gently fooling ourselves just enough to not fall apart. Otherwise, we’d break. What once hid our weakness gradually turns into something that supports us. Thinking that I might have vines too, quietly covering my own cracks, made me feel a little lighter.