underneath growth
Growth, usually associated with blooming or whatever aesthetic synonym, isn't always beautiful. It isn't seamless. And it isn't also a one-time shock —some things reside for god knows how long.
Most of the time, we are taught to flip the page and never come back, to step on the past with every shred of strength we've acquired. In other words, to heavily conceal our war wounds aka growth marks. We leave hurt parts of us in the past yet these parts are still attached to our present existence, and at the end, we are oscillating in the middle of nowhere. Healing, perhaps. The pain is slowly dying but sometimes it decides to screech so loud once again; an asymptotic sort of misery —it never reaches a finite end.
A doom-like feeling just hits you hard sometimes and you feel so small and hiding between your knees with fear biting through your body like the coldest ice ever. It could hit you anywhere, and it makes zero sense to you because you thought you went over this; why the hell do phantoms from the past live in the present?
I wish I could grasp the pain. Rip the heaviness out of my heart and throw it away. But I couldn't locate them, they're crawling at every corner and at every minute as if principles of spacetime never existed.
Maybe I got no choice other than carrying the indefinite weights along, maybe they're a part of the oxygen I breathe, maybe we could be friends sometime.
Maybe the journey of growth is endless, after all.