The Recalibration of Color
The battle is won, but the air stays thin,
A quiet gray where the highs had been.
When the brain is tuned to a jagged peak,
The "normal" world feels flat and weak.
But do not fear the black and white—
It’s just the dawn before the light.
I. Wake the Machine
To feel again, you must reclaim
The chemistry within your frame.
Shock the system: let the ice water sting,
Taste the presence that the cold can bring.
Move for power: not for the scale,
But to feel the lungs expand and exhale.
And let the deep sleep mend the gears,
The quiet repair of the heavy years.
II. The Hunt for Glimmers
Don't wait for thunder or a grand parade,
The brightest fires are the ones slow-made.
Seek the micro-joy in a morning cup,
Look for the "glimmers" to pull you up:
The wind on your skin, a song on the breeze,
A dog in a window, the swaying of trees.
The "high" is gone, but in its place,
The quiet hum of a steady grace.
III. The Flow of the New
Addiction is a loop, a tired track,
To break the cycle, don't look back.
Invite novelty to take the lead—
A different route, a different seed.
Find your flow in a focused task,
Where time dissolves and you drop the mask.
In wood or paint or the garden soil,
You find the spark through honest toil.
IV. The Mirror of the Soul
Isolation is the ghost you’ve known,
But no one heals on a desert throne.
Find the helper’s high in a selfless act,
Renew the human, holy pact.
Speak your truth in a shared space,
And see your strength in another’s face.
A Note on the Void
If you feel nothing, let it be.
Your mind is a ship on a silent sea.
The volume of life will slowly turn,
As the colors of world begin to return.
It’s not a failure, the stillness you find—
Just the recalibration of a beautiful mind.
About the Creator
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
Feelings Never Die
It is Valentine's Day again, and it bought back memories that were over fifty years old. It bought me back to 1971, and I woke up and I knew my baby was due today. I was big and pregnant, and I felt like I was about to burst wide open. Imagine my surprise when the doctor told my I had a due date of February 14. I couldn't believe it, and since my baby was due today, I felt I could indulge myself a bit. I had gained a lot of weight, and chocolate was on the no-no list, but I had came to the end of this pregnancy, and I hoped it would be okay, after all I would deliver this baby today. So I walked across the street to the grocery story, and bought myself, a peppermint patty, covered in chocolate, my favorite. Me and my Valentine's baby would enjoy it together.
By Susan Payton5 days ago in Fiction
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