Pressure

In a world offering worth based off production, where value is directly proportional to performance and reached potential, where our perception of perfection is skewed, the pressure is enough to drain the life from even the strongest of men.

In a society where they are pressing me into a mold, trying to take hold and define my identity, where they judge me by what I do or don’t have, it’s a roller coaster, and not a smooth one.

Its pressure presses into the brain, causing me to come close to insane, never finding rest because there’s always something more I could do, something more productive and presiding.  So this mentality robs of rest as every time a breath comes, it feels like a test, seeing if I waste my time or keep going.

It’s not a waste to rest. It’s not wrong to watch a movie. To write some poetry. To go explore the city. Yet my identity is not fully formed, therefore I am susceptible to this society’s verdict. What I long for is that frame. That solid frame of identity that ensures that I know I am me, and my value does not come from what I say or how full I make my resume, or even how many people I’ve saved to date. No, it comes from elsewhere. From the maker who looks with compassion and declares I have value because he made me. Punchenello, you are special to me.
And in that moment, all of the dots and stars from the Wimmex begin to loosen. Some even fall off. Those who previously judged me and told me who I was no longer have that power or capability. No, I can walk confidently because I know I am worthy, not because of what I have to show, but who I know.

And that’s a relief.

Their grasp cannot contain, their pressure cannot crush this frame, their words do not profane the identity of who I am.  And that, my friends, is where I want to stand.