Anachronic Sensibility

'I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely.' - Sylvia Plath I have too many feelings to be just kept to myself. So I weave them into pretty words, and compliment them with haunted lures. Sharing them with anyone, just one person even, erases any memories of the painful time they stem from. From Aira's ever-passing ephemeral eudaemonia, we have now arrived at her ever-lasting anachronic sensibility. Tales of lessons that span joy and sorrow alike, these poems are best summarized as the pocketbook of instructions for living her life. Drawing caution to not losing battles in her naivety and somehow, hesitantly, establishing trust that despite everything, there is still goodness, there is still warmth. A child within takes on an indifferent world, and the pieces of her puzzle snap and heal with every new experience. Struggling to feel at home anywhere, she finally finds it, in herself. Turns out when you run from most places you go, you really are just running from yourself. All it takes is a moment of epiphany, in an instant so mundane, on a day so average, of stepping back and taking it all in. Pattern recognitions of harm done and undone, the accountability in it all of your self-infliction. An attempt to normalise bad days, they're not a rare occurrence, despite what the world makes it look like. A little more growth than last time, and a promise to keep going. I hope that you too find a home in these words, somewhere.