Even when you can’t hear anything above the ache of your body–that feeling in every single part. Your face. Your teeth. Your ribs. Even when you are exhausted, just chewing your food, walking, breathing. Even when any movement brings the tears. Even when laughter touches the very same nerve as the indelible ink of your sadness, and they tumble free together. Even when your clothes are two days in, once slept. Even when your hair’s cry for the sun is muffled beneath a hat, or its own days unwashed. Even when you’re not sure how long you’ve gone without a glass of water, a bite of food, or noticing the sky. Even when your heart feels lost, buried, submerged in the deep. Even when you have not even a single, solitary one of these, but an itchy, unshakable feeling that you, or something around you, is just not right, and never will be, and it’s only felt that way always, like an ill-fitting shirt. Even when you can frost it all with wit and debonair. Even when it’s all a farce, it all is broken, it all is not for you, and you are not for it. Even then, it will ease. Call out. We’re here. Let it pass. We’ll sit with you. We get it.
The Others, Similarly Afflicted
*Artwork by Belhoula Amir