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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
Why would you do that to me?
I keep trying to locate the moment everything broke. Like itās a pin on a map I can circle in red. But there is no clear shatterpointāno clean fracture, no dramatic climax. Just pressure. Gradual. Relentless. Until one day, I couldnāt carry it anymore and I donāt even remember deciding to drop it.
Maybe the line was never drawn.
Maybe I was never taught I could draw one.
Is that my fault? His? Does fault even matter?
Was it an accident? Was it cruelty? Was it just the consequence of being small in a world that teaches people to take what they want?
I donāt know.
And Iām learning to live with not knowing.
But latelyāstrangelyāI think Iām healing.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But quietly, like the way snow melts: slow and almost imperceptible, until suddenly thereās grass again.
Iām letting go of the obsessions that gnawed at me.
I have energy again, like I finally remembered how to move.
Iām picking up pieces of old joy, half-buried but still intact.
Iām remembering the things I loved. The things that loved me back.
And maybe, most importantly,
Iām forgetting the things that never really mattered at all.
Jun 9, 2025
I hang your jackets in my closet like trophies, or maybe like warnings. I donāt know which. I donāt wear them. Itās far too hot ā sticky, oppressive heat that clings to the skin like regret ā but I keep them there, row by row, like memory has a dress code. The scent is gone now. That clean, clove-sweet sharpness you always carried. Still, I walk past them every day. I make myself look.
Itās supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself Iām meant for something bigger ā to make a name for myself, they always say ā but what name? The one I was given, or the one Iāll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where Iāve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go.
And yet. I donāt move.
My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things ā war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still canāt make them climb. I donāt know if that makes me weak or merciful. I donāt know if itās sabotage or a mercy I donāt deserve.
A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog.
Your guilt wonāt make you holy. Your regret wonāt make you clean.
So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender ā that momentary grace, delicate and impossible ā do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?
May 28, 2025
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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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