"’Slut’ is attacking women for their right to say yes. ‘Friend Zone’ is attacking women for their right to say no."
Typewriter Series #471 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
Peel back my skin and it won’t be bones you will find.
Hiding under the muscles the tissues the scars
and the freckles are decaying timbers washed ashore.
I am a sinking ship made of unsinkable parts.
I am an old boat, built without a rudder,
A tattered sheet for a sail.
Can you see what I’ve been trying to show you,
That I go where the breeze decides to carry me
and you, my love, are a hurricane.
I am made from the creaking beams and rusted nails
of a lonely vessel on a lonely sea.
I am covered and coated, dusted with old salt water
and the frail residue of moonlight.
The oars and the compass, the anchor and the wheel
have long since abandoned me.
Can you hear what I’ve longed to tell you,
That I go where the waves wish to deliver me
and you, my love, are the tide.
Press your ear to my chest and listen,
where a heartbeat should sing you will hear
the melancholy songs of tired whales.
The unsettled sigh and explosion of breath
as they find the surface once again.
Can you taste the salt on my lips?
Can you listen to the words I’ve been aching to say
That I go where the lights pull me
and you, my love, are the stars.
Stare through the portholes of my eyes
across the gray blue and green they float upon.
Hold tight to the timbers hiding under this flesh
and fill the empty sail with your grace.
I am the fragments of a shattered ship
filled with ancient songs sung by ancient souls.
Can you feel me falling into you as you leak into me,
That I’m a sinking ship made from sinking parts
and you, my love, are the sea.
"Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation.
Depression is humiliating.
If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too.
Depression is humiliating.
No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged."
Typewriter Series #440 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
When did wishing stop working
or has it ever worked at all?
Do we trick ourselves into believing
that the superstitions we hold on to also hold us back?
When has wishing melted the snow
or brought the rain or cleared the clouds
so the sun could shine again?
When has wishing stopped your feet or turned you around
or put the e the y the b the d and o and o and g
back into your mouth in reverse
and made you swallow them for once and forever?
When has wishing made next time this time
and let you walk away with me?
Where has all the salt gone that we’ve tossed over our shoulders
and where will I find my cave that holds my pennies?
Will I take them back? Will I stop wishing?
Maybe, just maybe it’s not the coming true
that matters and it’s not the moments
after a candle is blown out
but the moment you try, with one breath and
eyes closed tight to the world, to make smoke of so many flames.
Maybe it’s the wishing and not the wishes
that matter, the unwavering hope
that your feet will stop and your back will turn
and the o and the l and l and the e and the gorgeous H
will find its way from your gorgeous lips in forwards
and make you shout them for once and forever.
Maybe, just maybe it’s the wishing
and not the coming true that will finally make it be
that the next time you walk away
you walk away with me.
Oh Dear God, This is just too beautiful. It’s bitter sweet.