Photo by Noah Silliman on Unsplash
You wake, your weather against your window your thoughts against yourself. Last night was triumphant in its way, you should have been there. God, you should have been there. There were glittering scenes everywhere; rain fell, people bloomed, wore black and blues, saw their reflections suddenly, shouted, left home, fell in love with somewhere else. Did you stay around to be part of it? This is the thing, you can always choose the story. If the ending is wrong, you can build it again. If only we understood the power of the pen, how we write ourselves into being, how we keep on crafting truth. I wish we understood that our words are wishes, cast. I wish we understood that our lives are built from thoughts. Old practiced tunnels hardening around us. How long will you hold yourself away from the things that are calling, anyway? All of the bright, all of the necessary. Thing that would bump the colour of it all, things that would wash you brilliant, things that you dare not seek. There was a time you might have dared. Do not lose it to history. Anyway, that much is impossible. Nothing you have loved, made sense of, come to awful terms with, accepted, raged against, no time you have spent, nothing you had (or thought you had) is ever truly lost. Yes, I'm looking at you. I only say it because I love you.
I only say it because I love you