Lauren Theresa

Enantiodromia

It’s 2am and I’m fucking tired. I don’t want to be doing this, to keep stretching my brain and
squeezing out thoughts, sacrificing sleep for dull headaches and scrawl bent into shapes
unrecognizable to my heart. I don’t want this anymore. I crave flow, ease. The beauty that comes
from honoring the muses, showering them with sweetness and dopamine—sudden inspiration
that starts with the double beat in my chest they used to tell me was a sign of something wrong.

I’m releasing the hold of dead-lines, seeking live wires and allowing the curious hope that maybe
nothing is wrong with me. That maybe the only thing truly wrong is how I leave my Knowing to
run toward their shoulds. That maybe for too long I’ve brushed my hair into knots and read aloud
the scripts of assigned roles that were too much of a reach. That stretching that far wears a body
thin and frail and… tired. And so I’ll put down my pen. I’ll put down the pressure and poise and
I’ll stop scratching at my magnets in these failed attempts to point them due north, instead
remembering that where I dwell, the sun warms my face when I’m pointed due south. I’ll close
my eyes now, tuning only to my muse. And in this moment, I promise her I’ll listen.

The Wake

Staring out the window, sacrificing untimely wakeups for open blinds and making room for this
unsettling divination to commence. The clouds that look like mountains bringing me back to
your apartment. The unfamiliar landscape that burned, brighter than any moments we had alone.
Stillness, the trees unmoving… all of it calls to me now. The turn from day to night to lit cloud
day to new moon darkness. Dark walks, silent front porch cigarettes, painting memories and
stamped clouds to my brain from Loki’s eyes. None of this feels settled. Hunching over my
phone over the side of my bed over my nails—garnet chipped into half moon smiles, taunting
me. Haunting me into a season of something new… knowing full well something dead must die
and something needs to be born and there must be room for it all. So perhaps tomorrow I’ll paint
my toes. Perhaps I’ll shed my skin. Perhaps I’ll release this all not as flakes shimmering in
sunbeams but as thick, obvious ribbons of where I’ve been. The grotesque beautiful release of
who I was. Of who I am. All my insides falling out now, giving raw skin this season to breathe.