The humanistic theory of psychology focuses on a person’s untapped potential, who they could become if all their needs were met. I wonder at what lays dormant inside me, in caverns housing small eyeless victims of evolution. When they drill through years of layered stone, when the morning light shines through like a gleaming row of gold teeth to puncture the dark hush of this place. What will they find?
A fear. Or many. Or just one, of everything. Of being too little. Of being too much. Of being the right amount and still not right. Of deep sea creatures. Of becoming something unbound by childhood chains. Of moving on. Of staying forever. Of sinking into a permanent dreamworld. Of not being able to fall asleep. Of killing the thing I love. Of killing anything. Of being kissed. Of being touched. Of being had. Of having anything. Of having to take care of that thing.
A small pool of wishes swirling opal, glowing a pulse. To be right in the world. To be right in an argument. To be right next to someone all the time. To be away. To be safe. To be tucked anywhere I can stop thinking for any amount of time. To take care of children not mine. To finally become a child. To remember. To forget. To promise. To be promised to. To live in a white-walled apartment with large windows and working HVAC.
I always imagine it that way. Not a big doctor salary house in the gentrified neighborhood. Something that holds me that I can’t get lost or lonely in. (Also requires a person— I imagine faceless and so generous.) White walls to reflect the sun like snow. I’ll keep it as warm as they let me. It’s a big wish of mine: to be warm.
