Pieced Weekly

Existent

in the absence

of assurance

Thinking

that this madness

will somehow

bow

into our own deliverance

That somehow

there is more

to this

than this

That somehow

this fragments

of attachment

will

make us feel

less absent

That somehow

these

bouts of

doubt

are only temporary.

But

we

are only temporary

and this

madness

,

this ‘madness’

is our deliverance.

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Henri Meilhac

Maybe our

scars only

Heal enough

to stop

The bleeding

;

maybe that’s

Never enough.

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Nikola Jelenkovic

It was an afternoon.

As we found ourselves

sitting in rooms

silenced by those

who seek sanity

and their own silence

,

By those

who seek

more

,

Partially empty.

devoid

from voids

of temporary

interactions

as silence

gave in to

bounds

of sound

as it began

to feel

like the

seals

were finally peeling

o

f

f

;

But

we should have

known better

,

Tethering

on the precipice

of sound

isn’t really

escaping silence

,

All it ever does

is seal

u

s

in it

,

No matter how much we try to peel it off.

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Caleb George

 

 

I woke up to it

 

Threading itself

into threads

that barely held together

,

Staining the

stains

that only stayed

because they

could

barely fade away

,

Infringing itself

on the fringes

because they

could barely hold themselves together

;

Because I could barely hold myself together.

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Benjamin Combs

We’re always going. From beds to coffee shops, to offices, places and spaces that constitute fragments of our sustenance. To crawling cars at half past four. To homes that take us back at the end of it. To dinner tables. To beds. To all of it. All over again.

Stuck in this constant grind. Moving towards our perceptions of success. Of satisfaction in a world that looks like it might move past us if we’re half past it. If we aren’t doing everything we think we’re meant to be doing. If we don’t get out of the bed to begin with.

And most times that’s part and parcel of our our own internal movement to something greater. Understanding and chasing our dreams and aspirations – even on the mornings we rather not.

But sometimes we can’t really do that.
Sometimes we can’t really go.

Maybe ‘can’t’ isn’t the right word. Because parts of us know that we have in the past. Because parts of us want to with every fibre that makes them, them. Because we’ve been told that the world doesn’t know the word “can’t” – that it moves on without us. That we can’t be left behind.

Maybe there is no right word that truly encapsulates those moments of apparent immobility. Because they feel exactly like that. Like drinking out of empty coffee mugs. Like the cars crawling. Like standing still in a world that moves past us.

But everything that surrounds us exists irrespective of us.

We are our own microcosm of a universe.

Made of everything that makes us. Of action and inaction. Of mobility and immobility. Of moments.

And in those moments when we stop to breathe, when we stand still to take in the world that surrounds and lives within us, we find our own little coffee shops.

Each facilitating parts of our own unique journey. Each making that next step that much greater. Each forming our own internal satisfaction.

Each and every one of them shaping our own microcosm of a universe. All over again.

Written By: Hudson Biko

Photograph: Alex Iby

Previously published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com.