Find your tribe in a Sea of Creativity
Sometimes I think I'm holding back out of habit. Like I should've broken a long time ago. What does that make my current state, hm?
Normal is a memory, but time moves so slow, so much like it always has, that no one notices.
No one notices that we don't talk about jam anymore, or how beautiful your dress is.
Because have you seen the news? There are war crimes, beloved.
Your dress? The price of weeks of food thirty years ago
And it tastes like small hands working sowing machines.
The jam? No one has time for home mades anymore, my dear. There are tears to be swallowed.
I wonder if there ever was a normalcy, with Sunday brunches and sadness, not depression. Or if it was always a memory.
Always just a few generations out of our reach.
See, I was wrong.
We do notice.