There is some kind of innate, unshakeable urge to catastrophize, to belittle myself
and to firmly put reason to one side, discarded and to be forgotten
Like some how, pulling this dark sheet over my head, blocking out light and sanity
will benefit me, will cure me and provide solace
It’s strange that my mind, even if deep slumber, dreaming of azure skies and malachite fields
will dispute all that is good, all that is love
It will pick up them up roughly, the good, the angelic
and carelessly toss them into a sack
and throw them
I wonder sometimes if it could do the reverse
if it would say to me, I shall highlight and hold dear all that is good, that is light and pure
if it would hold them up to the sun and point out the divine beauty that is all around me
But I fear it will just submerge all that, free of nuance and peace and happiness.