Holding On

Part of an Intimate Poem Series

Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash

I am still holding on.

I feel it in every fiber of my muscles, in each vein that courses through my body, and in each trembling breath I manage to take.

My mind has taken on a life of its own, leaving my heart to fend for itself.

They are so disconnected. I am so disconnected.

This internal warfare has left me so puzzlingly numb.

On one hand, the logic of my brain trumps any ounce of passion or desire that my soul yearns for.

On the other hand, the dormant longing for a more creative and fulfilling existence that my spirit bleeds still manages to seep through.

Atom by atom, this latter part of me seems to have put all its kinetic energy in trying to overpower anything that stands in the way, like an ever-growing cry I can no longer silence.

In a way, I have come to terms with welcoming this new sensation. A sensation that is tiring out any voice of reason that I have fed for years.

The same voice of reason that I call my inner critic: the manifestation of all the fear, insecurity, and perfectionistic practicality that was passed down and presented to me as the sole and only truth.

The same false, fictitious truth that I continue to try and unlearn every day, which has resulted in this paralyzing mentally and emotionally charged battle.

A fight that will have one of two endings:

Either I stand stagnant and let the voice of reason incapacitate me from ever evolving, or I surrender to the uncertainty and let go of everything I ever knew to listen to a voice I have not listened to in years. An old friend I have shunned whom I call my gut, my instinct.