The Impossible feels like a loss of hope; like a dead end on an endless road to nowhere when all you need is “just up ahead.” The Impossible is someone who will never listen; who doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to. The Impossible is never thinking it’s over because there is just one more thing you haven’t tried. It’s a desperation that somehow makes you the best version of yourself as you try to give that impossibility away – to God. to Universe. to Yoga. Be more Tao. Be more centered. Pray. Plead. Chant more ohms. But never, ever ask for help. Expect it. Beg as if someone should already suspect this endemic behavior that all that is and all you’ll ever know will fail you.
The Impossible is a sleepless night; is the idea that family is something you’ll never know and never have. The Impossible tastes like shit and feels like death on a Sunday morning. It’s dark and cold. Lonely and forgotten. The Impossible is everywhere I’ve been and so often where I’m going when nothing seems right anymore. When I… don’t seem right anymore. Lost and broken.
The Impossible is more than just an act. It’s more than how I feel or anything I can control. It spread it’s thick, negative fingers from place to place, inside and out, as sleepless nights turn to one more fight turns to I can’t do this anymore. I’m not worth it. It’s not worth it. Like wild fire, it spreads in apathetic nature. Never sympathetic. Just an epidemic corner of the mind that turns us all blind to the possibility that this is just a single moment; a need to count to 10. This is my yesterday not my every day.
The Impossible is something I will survive. Someone who’s visit grows shorter with time.
Impossible is anything but my life.