I once heard that practice does not
Make perfect, it makes permanent.
And lately I’ve practiced the art of
Of losing myself in the abys of my thoughts–
It’s like being starved so much
You forget how food tastes.
Like your lungs have become an Alzheimer’s
Patient at the thought of fresh air.
At first you still feel weighed down.
Even at the hand of comfort.
I guess it’s what happens when you’re
Used to seeing mirages –
The lakes in front of you
Begin to feel like propaganda.
But when you find your safe house
You need not think too hard
Or try to find the words to emotions which
Have no translation.
When the realization settles
That I am safe,
My trauma becomes a friend that
I have outgrown.
I begin remembering what peace feels like-
A familiarity from a past life.
For so long I have practiced just surviving,
You have helped me make a habit out of living.