Chaos with Cait

Thoughts are not facts. A lesson to remember.

Life is unfair. I remember my step dad reciting that same sentence to me when I was a child. During my tantrums because you know, things weren’t going my way. I wish I understood the magnitude of that statement at the time. But I didn’t. In my brain, he was just being unfair as well. However as I’ve aged, I’ve come to understand what he meant. Life is unfair. And maybe that's not something you ever learn to fix. Just something you learn to live with.

I never know if I am dying, and that is something that startles me.

I hate when a mediocre man tells me to smile. How about you give me something to smile about bitch.

Stronger where I need to be. Softer, where I want to be. Braver because I finally understand that courage is not the absence of fear it’s always been choosing myself, even while fear is still speaking.

Life is such a silly complex concept. Us humans, accept a life and then we waste most of it. What is that?

Love has knocked before but always with rough hands, way too heavy for my door.

Comfortably uncomfortable. Such a difficult place to be.

My tears watered the ground, and something in me began to grow.

Pickles, tiny little hearts in brine, thank you. For the salt, the sour, the garlic and the crunch. Your small green selves are testimony that even a ghost can keep something alive. Perhaps it is love that keeps my heart beating. Perhaps it is pickles. Either way, I am grateful.

I have lost my sparkle. I have misplaced my shine. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like mine. There are too many days I barely recognize my mind. I am searching for the girl I was, and wondering where she hides.

Salt in my mouth. Wind in my hair. Sun on my skin. Suddenly, I forget my name, and welcome home my soul.

Not every flower announces itself. Some bloom just to breathe.

My thoughts are wild rivers. I let them flood, I let them carve new earth.

I want to taste the world, I want to drink sunlight until I am drunk on being alive.

Her body is a library that survived the burning. Every breath of hers, is a page still being written.

Mornings start in battle, not against the sun, but the body I wake inside. My body bargains with me in whispers and threats. Every movement is taxed, and every breath is a ledger line. I rage at it. I call my body names you cannot say in polite rooms. I curse the cells that chose mutiny over loyalty. I scream at the mirror until the glass fogs from breath, with proof that I am still here. But still, the air, something so basic turns predator when I’m not paying attention. I w

She was never small. The world simply built rooms that could not hold her hunger for more.

I cannot untangle the burdens of my own life. Yet I keep showing up where I can, when I can. It doesn’t solve a thing. Still, for a moment, I feel lighter.

I water uncertainty like a garden, trusting that it knows how to bloom.