this person with dreams and purpose, this person with heartful of love and tears as a proof of its painful blooming, this person with a lot say and a lot to see with an agreeable “to-do” and hidden “what-if-I-never” list, this person good enough to be included in your plans, in your friendly banter, in your group chats, in your betrayals, in your short-lived love, in your museums of wax, in your corrupting memory, in your unreliable heart
this person – this image, is merely an excuse I give to world, an excuse I give to myself. So that I can continue to exist even when I don’t know why I must.
I tell myself stories about why I threw away all that I had, or why everything was taken away from me. How I was too weak, will always be too weak to carry the weight of the gifts that I had. Or how I was never quite convinced that I had something to be proud of. How I was always trying to gauge how much deep my feelings ran for everything that I could only sort-of-love. I can list all similar attempts where I sought a better quantitative understanding of my specialness and used these unreliable results to decide how and when to give up. But if I had to give one consolidated story of why I was never a failure at anything, why I never succeeded, why I had nothing to show for the years I lived or for the talents that people remember me for. If I had to be concise and true I would say I never made those decisions, I was never aware of how I felt about all the things that bother me now. I drifted away from what I was, from what I treasured, the way dear friends lose touch, lose each others name, lose a happiness they could have had. Only to be reminded of this loss when it no longer matters.