We all squeak

I can’t explain this simply or beautifully or in a way most can relate. I may not be alone in this, but it sure as hell feels like it. I long for that feeling to no longer be a crumbling pillar, with shards of myself being flung into chasms by the river currents. The ripples and wavelets of equinox, of but the easiest time of year. The currents that only twigs and leaves find difficulty in penetrating. Here we stand, in a perpetual state of melancholic dissolution, in sheer and utter panic of the near waterfall, yet sheer and utter nonchalance to our crumbling state. We empty ourselves in hope that hollow marionettes swing their limbs into submission, swing their limbs into defiance, swing their limbs into departure with less difficulty than we ever did. No matter how profound our yearning for functionality, no matter how much of ourselves we evaporate and seal in chests for no one but those worthy to see, precious bits of ourselves, humanely quirks that would never survive out in the open, they still get lost. We slip. We squeak. We have little screws and mold in certain parts of ourselves which hold us back. And although we have to accept that, perhaps our lives will never be the same because of this, our lives might have turned out better if it weren’t for this illness but we must accept that. All rebellion is futile. Those little screws and molds, whether they’re a shitty dad, or a shitty eating habit, something hidden in the back of your mind or in the length of your sleeve, they’re all just squeaks. Those prove we’ve been somewhere, and we’re not as hollow as we say we are. Those prove that we fought, that we swam opposite the current. Yes, some of us let go. Some of us are at the bottom of that waterfall and except the lethal crash, there’s no squeaks left. We miss them, yet we share their squeaks. Whatever we choose to do, we’re changing the world just by existing. We’re glorifying glory and we’re healing the hardest person whose wounds we can mend. Ourselves. Each-other. And I still hear my little squeaks and I’ve let others hear them. Sometimes, in the middle of conversation, when someone is laughing, someone I’d never expect, I hear their squeak. And what do they do? They keep laughing, harder than before. Because honestly, loud is relative. Ravings and din are subject to change, they can be heard in a tone just shy of a cowering whimper of feeble regret. Let’s drown them out. I know you’ve heard this before but I’m not saying your squeaks can simply cease to exist. I know it’s hard but let’s have no zero days. Let’s attempt, even if for a fleeting moment in those 24 hours, to give a shit and try. And let’s let our squeaks be heard, but never louder than our laughter and never louder than the squeak that is heard when you raise your fist in mid-air and charge!

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