send me to the sunflower rehab

because having hope is exhausting

imagine you’re sprinting through a vast field of sunflowers and along with that, possibilities. their golden faces tilting towards the sunlight like a disciple to a god, basking in the warmth, the glory, you’re yellow, so is everything around you. the sky above you is painted blue- it somehow feels fictional- as you’re sprinting, the petals brush your skin like velvet dipped in gold, leaving traces of hope and light. it smells like heat and late june.

each one of us is somewhat of a sunflower itself. we mirror the light. we mimic the joy. we become the performance.

the warmth clings to your skin like the crescendo of a film score—sweeping, cinematic, almost believable. but something doesn’t sit right. it never does.

because no matter how golden the field, or how wide your arms stretch, it still feels like you’re trapped in a movie you didn’t audition for. like you’re stuck in a loop of sunshine and soundtrack—waiting for the next scene. but the reel just clicks quietly in the background, never advancing.

maybe no one tells you that hope, when repeated enough times without reward, becomes a weight.

not a light to run toward—but a spotlight you’re forced to perform under.

you keep planting yourself in golden places, facing the sun like you’re supposed to,

and you start to feel guilty when you can’t bloom.

it’s not that you’re ungrateful.

it’s that sometimes, carrying belief is heavier than giving up.

no one prepares you for the quiet heartbreak of waiting.

waiting for the plot twist.

waiting for the change.

waiting for life to finally catch up with your optimism.

sometimes hope is just surviving on scraps of maybe.

and even the most radiant field begins to feel like a trap when your ribs start showing.

so maybe don’t send me to the sunflower field.

send me to the rehab.

where hope doesn’t come in golden rays,

but in cold floors and soft silences.

where no one tells you to bloom,

just sit.

just breathe.

just be.

maybe healing isn’t a field of light.

maybe it’s a shadow you learn to rest in without flinching.

maybe it’s not about turning toward the sun,

but learning how to stay still when the light moves away.

i don’t know if things will get better.

but i’m learning how to stand here anyway.

under a sky that doesn’t promise,

among flowers that don’t ask.

and maybe that’s enough.