I’m tired of narratives. I’m tired of reality. It seems you have to choose. One’s boring, the other makes you feel like you’re missing something. I’m getting too existential. There’s always someone or something telling you how to live your life. I wish my freedom wasn’t dependent on money. I’m too young to feel this tired. I wish I could package this pretty.
I watched you sit by the dim lights in our room. Our time has ran on until this moment, and I imagine myself packing my things. To our child selves, I wish to tell them how we would change. I would tell him to be braver, to not doubt himself so much, and to become what he was meant to be, only sooner. To her, I’d say it’s not enough to have a kind heart. Good intentions won’t protect you from others, and I can’t always protect you. It’s a rare thing to see you and I change throughout the years. I love you, but I’m like cracked ceramic. You can see the fissures run deep, and I’m romanticizing a better time.
Do you feel the magnitude of what I feel? Have you stretched your mind into others’ only to find that they have not thought about it as much as you have? I wish for a calm, whispering field, where the wildflowers sway in tune to a gentle breeze. This is the place I’ve visited in my mind. I wish for a dune that I could sit atop and roast myself dry just to feel the extremes of humanity. I can’t bear this heavy weight, these shackles of my own skin. Do you ever wish to rip your skin off and just exist as something else? These thoughts are too heavy to sustain.