labyrinth

sometimes when i step outside, it smells like october of 2021, or maybe im thinking of january of 2022. i look over and see me, a version of me that no longer exists with problems that no longer matter, sitting in a wicker chair, wondering if i will ever be okay. i see a kid with adult anger and childish grudges, and sometimes, on the drive back from the airport, i look at where the snow used to be, i imagine how it fell down, how it stayed there a while slowly turning brown, then black from all the smoke, and then disappeared. i smell the black cherry, i think "i missed this", then i go home and smell the sulfur, "i missed this". i dont think my writing is good, i dont think im much different from my peers, i know everyone cries in dark spaces, about things that are beyond comprehensible. things that will never be spoken aloud. i know my family's hearts' ache. ache about things im too afraid to know. ive been thinking about what buddists believe. this suffering, big or small, is meant to be felt in all kinds of ways, and just like the laptop im typing this on, like the blanket my nana made for me when i was a little girl wrapped around me, like the cities i visit and the people i meet, it will all be gone, ashes to ashes, and i know this will all mean something eventually.