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Falling into a hole, again and again, each time saying, āThis is not my grave. Get out of this hole.ā Climbing out, only to stumble into another, muttering, āThis too is not my grave. Get out.ā Another hole, and then another, holes within holesācascading, endless. Falling, rising, falling again. Each time insisting, āThis is not my grave. Get out of the hole.ā
Sometimes youāre pushed into the hole, defiant as you climb out, shouting, āYou cannot push me into this. It is not my grave.ā Other times, you fall unprovoked, tumbling into spaces already carvedārigid, ideological, impersonal voids. Holes whose walls were long dug by others. And sometimes, you fall into holes with others. Together, hands and arms forming ladders, you rise, proclaiming, āThis is not our mass grave. Get out.ā
There are times you willingly fall, choosing the hole because it seems easier than resisting. Only once inside, you realizeāthis isnāt the grave either. So, you climb, slow and deliberate, discovering that even after this hole, thereās yet another. And another.
Some holes linger, holding you captive for days, weeks, years. They may not be graves, but escaping them feels insurmountable. Still, you claw your way out, knowing the horizon holds an endless field of holes. Occasionally, you stop to survey them, yearning for a final, dignified place to restāa hole of purpose, of completion. Yet even then, you wonder about others who have fallen, who never climbed out. Sometimes, you think, perhaps they found peace in staying.
You move forward, torn between avoiding the holes and contemplating their inevitability. Sometimes, you fall with resignation; other times, with a stubborn resolve. But each time, you rise, saying, āLook at the strength, the spirit, with which I rise from what resembles the grave but isnāt.ā
Feb 24, 2025
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Always falling into a hole, then saying āok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,ā getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying āok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,ā getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying āthis is not your grave, get out of the holeā; sometimes being pushed, saying āyou can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,ā and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying āthis is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,ā all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole thereās just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplatingĀ the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying ālook at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isnāt!ā
~ Anne Boyer
Aug 16, 2024
I buried- in silence -in the back yard -a thing in the night -deer trodding behind the tree line airplane light rolling down the cheek of the dome- it had to be done alone no matter how many times you asked what was growing here I couldnāt speak its name- and you couldnāt hold the reigns of a certainty that is not yours to keep -here is my mind, the living, the executor, the backdoor frightened child staring off wandering for the holder -here is the order of the sphinx, the cataloged diagnosis of the ordinary wheel -here is the lackadaisical assistances that you ordered: ābury the hatchet that dug the hole. take the sword of your desires and throw it at the heap. there is a lump forming that must be seared. the stitches to be unraveled are trying to leach into the skin from which they are formed. you must open the earth or be dissolved yourselfā
Feb 25, 2025
In threefold lives and twofold tears I hold my breath but I canāt pretend itās not happening anymore. I keep finding myself saying āweāre graduatingā again and again with no intonation because I truly donāt know what to feel. Maybe itās a manifestation or maybe itās just a recognition of the eventual, the eventuality of the end of the various hues Iāve been painted with at scad. In my minds eye lives a collage of all of the people whom Iāve cherished for four, (or five years if you count dual enrollment), to say I love them is an egregious understatement. To say I will miss them is simply diminishing an actuality. With me I carry this collage of love it keeps me warm when I am cold, and tender when I am stone. I helped me grow into my bones. Seen me and shone, people Iāve adored. I leave this place adorn with knowledge and love and a want for more.Ā Ā Chest heave practical in armor, holding onto the alternate dream of me, hoping, hoping for an offer, offering a life I am to live, if I just turn and run, if I just turn and run this time, lime green coconut leaves, spotted bedroom sheets, but the change is making me feel like iāve already tried to hold myself a million little times,Ā Ā I try again, felicity in the way I falter, tell you endlessly, screaming colors of the ocean, push me in I adore it, let me live, I pour it out, strangers color me in the night, pieces of each of our mind, in a way we see each other demise each time, turn in, torn into sequins, sequential nightmares, its going to just end, in a way that I sink through the sun, into I construe again, I was just eighteen when I started this, made some friends I cherish, even, even if I lose them, Iāll still have a memory, of my beloveds smiling back at me, seen me grow, seen me weak, bleeding in through my knees, crying on their shoulders, painful hollow little laughter, walking through a tunnel, holding onto each other, Iāll love them like no other like a dream, no other could it be, in my perfect dream, many lifetimes lived with thee.Ā
7h ago
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I started loving being alone most of the time, it made me feel bored and empty at first when I started living alone but now I am starting getting used to it and embracing it and realizing it wasn't that bad after all.
one of the best thing that could happen to a person is changing and expanding his perspective.
Jan 21, 2025
Unlucky enough to sleep less than 7 hours
Lucky enough to witness the sunrise, sunset, and even the moon
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