Drip, drip, drip

Historically, there was a type of human torture where a captive person was sat under an irregularly patterned continuous drip of cold water right on the top of their forehead. At first perhaps it grew frustration, until hours go by, you try to anticipate the timing of the next drip but you can't. Supposedly these individuals would lose their minds, the drops of water overwhelming their systems with stress and anxiety. 

Drip, drip, drip.

The symptoms of the systematic systemic systems of America at least, were created by ambiguous forces of failing infrastructure, purposeful deconstruction, and unempathetic institutions, leaders, and individuals. Games of targeted unempathy seeking to unravel identities and strip away humanity. Trapped within a system that promised support but has become merely the illusion of a safety net. They said that hard work could allow you comfort but I struggle to find a job despite the propaganda of an education promising one. Maybe the system was built with good intentions. Maybe it’s just deeply flawed. Perhaps. This benefit of the doubt keeps me circling my own torture. 

Drip, drip, drip.

My identity is marked as a queer, disabled, working class artist from the Rust Belt, a place surrounded by histories of neglect. The politicalization of my existence is found in horrors of  legislation, in hate, in silence. The trauma of my present coagulates with the trauma of my past, a depression that settled in too early in life, an unwarranted abuse that clings like a shadow. Chronic illness grows like a scab across old wounds. The oppression has altered the very makeup of my cells. My body endures constant symptoms of pain and fatigue.   This sickness causes everything in your life to cost more, not just monetarily, but costs more of your time, more energy, more of your life. 

Drip, drip, drip.

We talk about collective healing, that perhaps it could save us from this broken system. Community takes showing up, but where are you? You are not showing up. Maybe that isn’t fair, I have empathy for you, your life is filled with its own challenges. Perhaps you show up somewhere else, there are so many causes to help, so much weight that needs to be unburdened. I must understand that you can't be here when you are already there. Where should we be showing up? How can we be together so far apart? Showing up is hard. It takes energy we don’t always have. Energy that is seeped out of our open wounds, for empathy too has a cost.  

Perhaps it all doesn't have to be this way, perhaps the walls don’t always have to feel like they’re closing in, perhaps we all don't have to feel so alone.. I am so alone. 

                      Drip, drip, drip

It feels like nothing I do  matters when staring down the barrel of another ghosted job application, failed doctors appointments and healthcare battles,

unaffordable essentials, and unattainable living costs, of everyday traumas, and put-downs, and bullies, unseen efforts, and unknown bodily costs, of failed interactions and awkwardness, the loneliness of crowds, the anxiety of existence, of feeling like a failure in a system setup for me to fail. I know all of this, I’ve felt all of this, so maybe it's foolish that I keep planting seeds I hope will grow. Maybe it’s foolish to think that I should keep trying. I am no gardener, my hope has already been left for dead or trampled. I too can’t always show up where I'm needed, where I should be or could be, but I will keep planting seeds. Is it out of some desperate cling to tomorrow? Or perhaps a silent knowing that a small act can cause ripples. 

Drip, drip, drip

I will keep planting seeds

Drip, drip, drip

Maybe one day they will grow into something beautiful