Im not sure why. Though I’m sure it’s trauma adjacent. For me, releasing things to the universe feels a lot like uncupping my balls while standing naked in front of a pissed off pit bull. You just hope she sees it as a sign of peace, not an invitation to take a wee nibble.

Eventually the dust settles. Sure.

But not before it clings to your lungs, your hoodie, and that one strange memory you didn’t know would stick.

And I’ve got just enough self-awareness to know that “letting go” is really just code for “don’t bleed on my fucking rug.”

And the worst part? It’s never the memory you think it’ll be.

Not the obvious heartbreak, not the fight, not the loud goodbye.

It’s some quiet Tuesday. Something she said in passing. The way someone looked at you when you weren’t paying attention. That’s the kind of shit that haunts. Dust with a soul and a shadow.

So what do you do?

You move through it.

You keep your face calm. You train.

You throw punches at a bag and hope that eventually, one of them lands on the right little devil.

I stretch.

I breathe.

I scream into dirty old pillows I stole from one of my many tragically unhealthy relationships.

Then I drink just enough gin to keep the demons hydrated. Not so much that they start monologuing. God forbid those fuckers started to narrate my entire life. So I water board them with white claws and smile while I can.

And when that fails, I hit pads until my shoulders forget I’m sad.

I’ve got Muay Thai.

I’ve got a liver that works some over-time.

I’ve got the spiritual discipline of an alcoholic yogi with a closeted LSD and mild methamphetamine addiction. Except all of it’s metaphorical. Probably.

And I’ve got a deep psychological need to pretend I’m unbothered while emotionally pacing in place like a feral raccoon with PTSD.

You know the type. Eyes too bright, hands twitchy, hasn’t eaten real food in days but will absolutely throw hands if provoked.

And sure, I try to let go.

But letting go for me means obsessively analyzing it, metaphorizing it, romanticizing it, burning it into a blog, and calling it closure.

I don’t process emotions. I narrate them until they sound noble.

Because if you live for the story, this might just be the cover charge.

You flinch.

You offer your soft parts to the cosmos.

And you hope the pit just sniffs, sighs, and walks away.

But if she bites?

It hurts. You might never walk upright again.

But you’ll write better for it next time. Or give her another pound of flesh….