Overload

Careful what you wish for.

I regret going through all of my poems. Like seriously? All of them. Every version. Every era. Every constructed thought I once convinced myself I’d come back to if it put it on paper.

It’s overwhelming in a way I didn’t expect. Not because the work is hard, but because it is endless. I keep opening folders, notebooks, old notes, and realizing I’ve barely touched the surface. After a month of circling them—reading a little here, sorting a little there—it feels like I’ve made no real dent at all.

There are too many. Too many poems. Too many voices. Too many versions of me asking to be remembered at the same time. I do not even remember some of these pieces.

Some days it feels impossible to comb through them all, like I signed myself up for something I didn’t fully understand when I wished for it. Like I opened a door and immediately forgot how much was on the other side.

And yet.

Even in the frustration, even in the exhaustion of it, I know I want to do this. I don’t want to abandon them, after they have just been found. I don’t want to leave them scattered and half-seen anymore. If I’m going to be overwhelmed, I’d rather be overwhelmed by something I believe in.

I have to keep going. Slowly. Imperfectly. Knowing that this process will take longer than I want it to—and choosing it anyway.