By Stela Xega

Growing up is so fucking hard, if only for the fact that you realize you’re never going to have total stability and you’re never always going to have your shit together. That it’s been years that passed without you realizing it. That the ups and downs are normal. And you have to learn to love yourself through every down, too, and that if you give up on yourself, on your life, that’s your prerogative, but no one else is going to pick you up or get you out of that hole. Because it’s something only you can do.

And growing up is hard because you start to understand that being your #1 fan is the most important thing. That even if you have incredible support and amazing friends and relationships, at the end of the day, if the voice in your head that beats you up won’t be quiet, you’re screwed. You have to actively work on helping yourself. You’re always stuck with yourself.

It feels like I’m doing a terrible job of growing up right now. I’m only hoping that I’ll look back on this period of my life where everything is a mess in my head and feel okay, and know that it got me to a better place and helped me expand as a human being. That’s all there is left to do.

I am always thinking about fire.

About how we are all burning houses with no fire department to call or maybe we write because the world is a house on fire and the people we love are burning even ourselves or how we are all skyscrapers burning at different speeds with smoke rising from the top of us.

I myself consistently feel like a burning house. Living life is like slowly allowing yourself to collapse into the ashes. We can’t escape the flames of ourselves.

But I choose to think of myself as a fire that I shouldn’t be trying to put out myself, or calling someone else to put it out for me either, for that matter. I think the only way you get through life is by accepting that you are a burning process– not a burning thing. And then you let yourself crackle and burn gracefully, you roast marshmallows in your burning life, you take part in your own burning. You unlearn it as something bad and recondition yourself to see fire as something that illuminates and warms the world.

I don’t think anything good comes from screaming fire or trying to put the fire out. I think you’ve got to live your life knowing the smoke is going to keep rising and the flames are going to keep getting bigger, so you might as well choose how the fire burns and what you use to feed the flames than pretend you could ever put it out.

Dead Self thoughts reincarnated in words;Darling, listen.no matter what we doour fingers will end upblistered,our palmsbloodyif welook into the mirrorlong enough to know anything,if we pull the rope harderor let it give,and the only thingthat means anythingis what we’re bruising for.but there are only so many timesyou can speak a wordlike “hero”or “trying”before you begin to resent it,before imposture syndrome starts to creep inthrough your strong hands that tryto keep your whole world from caving,starts to crack the surfaceof your invincible skinand cushioned heart,some daysI wake upI do not want to be anythingI do not want to be anyoneI am tired of trying.and stillI carry a superlativeI want so badly to live up toI walk out the doorI put the cape on,and at least when the wind blowsI will feel a little somethinglike flying.the world offends youbut it speaks without caringbut we don’t care

I don’t wanna talk about how the skyhas always felt like an apology to the ground,“listen I’m sorry everyone steps on you,tries to dig deeper only to be disappointed,but here I am infinite,take a break from the feet and the heavy heartsand let them float a while”

Nothing hurts more than dancing in a full but empty apartmentthat doesn’t belong to youand never willI hate when I smell the smoke on youlike a burned down dream

Pain comes in too many kinds of colorsto call one insignificant, there are some dayswhen your hard is my easy and others whenI could not even fathom how to jump the fencesand climb the walls that you do–

I know that miles away you’re feeling worn down too,and you tell me in a text message that things have been hard latelyand for a minute I want to tell you that you don’t know the half of it,but I remember that lectures are useless andwe all have problems,

and for some of them we need a microscope,others a telescope, or even a stethoscope, becausethey can only be heard in the slightly quicker-than-usual heartbeat,

I know today your black and blue lungsmatch the color of my purple heart, gasping for air,holding in secrets, and huffing out tryagain tryagain tryagain.

Side note —-

 How’s your heart lately?