Dysphoria hits, I hit back.
Depression hits, I hit back.
I get up again the next day.
I’m tired.
But I’m not done yet.

There are things I’m looking forward to this month. Things I hope will be beautiful, things I dread will be heartbreaking again (they’re the same things of course) I try not to get my hopes up and just go with the flow, I try to remove expectations from the equations, but the math keeps mathing on its own in my subconscious, like gears turning without a brake to control them.

I overthink and I overfeel. I stopped overloving at least, or at least I think I did. I kept only the hopeless in hopeless romantic, but I try to remember the romantic.

I ramble on paper, on screen, and in my head.
(Mostly in my head)

I still get carried away but I cautiously rein it in with intention, with fear, with despair.

With sorrow and resignation

I choose to rein it in and compress it back into a small ball, tucked into the deepest corners of my soul, present but ignored.

Left on the side of the road.

Healing in a non-linear fashion.

Because hope is a fossil fuel
Burning off dead dreams

And I realize, in time,
That I’m running out of dreams.