Kamala Harris has Never Listened to BRAT and We All Know It.

This job is killing us and we all know it. We work these short hours and come home with black palms and aching spines. To be fair, I am hormonal as I type this, complete with the melodrama of my 14 year old self whose prefrontal cortex had already been calcified by endless hours of sharpie sniffing and Tumblr brainrot. Alas, the sentiments I hold in these statements still feel as though they ring true. I attempt to "It's alright" myself through the sweat and toil and the mysterious substance permanently staining my clothes because this cannot be my forever, right? Someday, I will be sitting down with a shimmery butterfly pea and lavender mocktail, kiking with friends about my time in the factory. How the hours were few but the work load was agonizing. The way the fluorescent lights would jolt my brain awake through the residual sleepiness that has permanently taken residence through my entire body. The taste of coffee and small talk with coworkers as we attempt to breathe life into ourselves once again. I sleep and I sleep and it doesn't feel sufficient. I miss sunrises. I miss being able to give my weekends to art and creating instead of attempting to gain control over what the next moment will bring. And I know one day, I will miss these moments as well. I tend to exist in a perpetual state of nostalgia. The endless desire for bads that weren't as bad as this even though this bad is the "good" a sharpie sniffing Tumblr brainrotted 14 year old would fantasize himself to sleep over. I've taken extra care to make my bedroom my own safe place. No matter how hard work will get, no matter the size of the check, I will eat. I will get myself something nice. I will take care of myself to the best of my ability and call that resilience. In the hours my body toils and my mind attempts to make me the villain of my life's story and burden in the existence of others', I will keep trying. I will do better. I will be better. I will go home and shower. I will eat. I will sleep. I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay. I will be okay. 

I have to. 

I spent my youth attempting to disconnect myself from religion. I wanted to throw faith to the wayside. Moments like this feel like prayer. Who am I begging in order to know that I will be okay tomorrow? Last night, I cleaned my roommate's bed. My other roommate deep cleans the kitchen. We tell each other we love each other. My fiance sends me pictures of him smiling. I stay awake past my bedtime to go on a walk and a family of birds fly into the night sky. I pray. To something. To nothing. To the way a stranger will help you with your groceries on a bad day. To the breeze that kisses my cheek on my morning commute to work. I pray.  

Thank you for reading. <3