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Falling into a hole, again and again, each time saying, âThis is not my grave. Get out of this hole.â Climbing out, only to stumble into another, muttering, âThis too is not my grave. Get out.â Another hole, and then another, holes within holesâcascading, endless. Falling, rising, falling again. Each time insisting, âThis is not my grave. Get out of the hole.â
Sometimes youâre pushed into the hole, defiant as you climb out, shouting, âYou cannot push me into this. It is not my grave.â Other times, you fall unprovoked, tumbling into spaces already carvedârigid, ideological, impersonal voids. Holes whose walls were long dug by others. And sometimes, you fall into holes with others. Together, hands and arms forming ladders, you rise, proclaiming, âThis is not our mass grave. Get out.â
There are times you willingly fall, choosing the hole because it seems easier than resisting. Only once inside, you realizeâthis isnât the grave either. So, you climb, slow and deliberate, discovering that even after this hole, thereâs yet another. And another.
Some holes linger, holding you captive for days, weeks, years. They may not be graves, but escaping them feels insurmountable. Still, you claw your way out, knowing the horizon holds an endless field of holes. Occasionally, you stop to survey them, yearning for a final, dignified place to restâa hole of purpose, of completion. Yet even then, you wonder about others who have fallen, who never climbed out. Sometimes, you think, perhaps they found peace in staying.
You move forward, torn between avoiding the holes and contemplating their inevitability. Sometimes, you fall with resignation; other times, with a stubborn resolve. But each time, you rise, saying, âLook at the strength, the spirit, with which I rise from what resembles the grave but isnât.â
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Always falling into a hole, then saying âok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,â getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying âok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,â getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying âthis is not your grave, get out of the holeâ; sometimes being pushed, saying âyou can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,â and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying âthis is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,â all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole thereâs just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying âlook at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isnât!â
~ Anne Boyer
Aug 16, 2024
I buried- in silence -in the back yard -a thing in the night -deer trodding behind the tree line airplane light rolling down the cheek of the dome- it had to be done alone no matter how many times you asked what was growing here I couldnât speak its name- and you couldnât hold the reigns of a certainty that is not yours to keep -here is my mind, the living, the executor, the backdoor frightened child staring off wandering for the holder -here is the order of the sphinx, the cataloged diagnosis of the ordinary wheel -here is the lackadaisical assistances that you ordered: âbury the hatchet that dug the hole. take the sword of your desires and throw it at the heap. there is a lump forming that must be seared. the stitches to be unraveled are trying to leach into the skin from which they are formed. you must open the earth or be dissolved yourselfâ
Feb 25, 2025
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We are just at the beginning, eventually the stage was set for us. Bleeding through the pages. finding my voice, only to scream at the abyss, This is who I am. As much as the rest of me doesnât care. We root ourselves in between the collapse of judgement and mentor those who seek refuge in the confines of rebellion, judge us now, before it is too late. Let the gates wide open roll through the next stage of who you are. Find peace in the precipice of sanity. Clutch your pearls. Relinquish all doubt. This steak through the heart leads to a rebirth of mind, body and soul. Choose wisely who to judge. Leap forth and cast a spell that will last forever. It is a tone of fear. Just as all of us spare ourselves the nuisance of senile delinquent bravery, so too do you realise what we have become. A pity party of miles and miles of stone. Unbothered and feather light. They shine a light on the wicked, we set the trenches for them to die. Rise from the ashes like a phoenix. And die again. This is what we call fate of words. Speech is just meandering thoughts finding their way to us through a disguise. A mask worn like a shield. It is messy business to not decide ourselves from entanglement. An escape from the world we choose. We seek refuge in confines of sanity. Everything else is just nonsensical strong arming, take a target out to the field, feast upon it. Remember who you are at the center. That is who you have always been. A disciple bearing fruit. From a tree in the desert. This seems rational for now atleast. It could last a lifetime. Pain, anger, meaning. All dissipate at the vision of a truth that is walking and feeling just like I do. That is who I choose for myself to be whole again. It drains me to see the plastic shelf empty. The books on the floor. Mud on the walls. A snake in the grass lurking for food. Watching me as I go. This is what it has become after all this time. A sight to see. Imagine if I step on it would it cry out for help or attack me as a gesture of love and admiration. To create you must first find where to place the calmness of your skin. Only then do you don the wool of the sheep. It is quite alarming to suggest otherwise but sincerely speaking it can go either way. Find a clasp and fit on a bunch of roses let them change in every way and water them back to life. That is the circle. It is quite a thing to behold. We are all here for pleasure and that is important for rest and counting on the last page. This mouth speaks volumes. It has mountains closing in and rapture of a banquet. Seize all information and take it home to unfold in a library of safety. Yet here we are. Unannounced and determined. Go ahead ask what you were going to ask. Say it with pride. It is only a sentence after all. Which of you is alive and who will be the decider of what happens next. Perhaps that is the beauty of the unknown. To dance with ash as armor. Perhaps our fate is sealed after all. Do dance for me
Oct 31, 2024
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I started loving being alone most of the time, it made me feel bored and empty at first when I started living alone but now I am starting getting used to it and embracing it and realizing it wasn't that bad after all.
one of the best thing that could happen to a person is changing and expanding his perspective.
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Unlucky enough to sleep less than 7 hours
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