my polka dots drain. run. scatter. melting away from my essence. artifacts of creative avenues. once cultivated. giving rise to novel expressions. bubbles of boundless wonders. but now escape in purposeless puddles. helpless against the abyss of loss. the little light left. flooding dark rooms with opportunity. i reach for it. a disoriented damsel. in desperate search for new dotting techniques.
daily internal struggle of contrast. wonderful – dreadful. hideous – attractive. emotional – numb. binary lines of yes and noes. little conflicting mantras. slicing through my psyche. where i lose and find. love and hate. every shadow poised to pin me with negative notions. attempting to overbear the strands of glowing hope. and reign. but light must win. triumph. even when she seems outnumbered.
repetition is life’s practice. an echo of past and future selves. blending together into a form. familiar. residence for this refugee. a space within that welcomes all versions of this traveler. the seeker. the one who resides in between the beams of brick establishments. takes shelter in herself. learns to bend with each new position. and finds harmony in the chaos.