(no subject)
I have loved, but never won.
I have tried and tried again and again, but I'm still trying.
I am am capable of everything, but my mother and I may be the only ones who appreciate it.
My eyes. I've always wanted big bright eyes, but they stay tired and squinted for all eternity. It's as if the sun is too bright. The world, in all of it's glory and ugliness, is just too much to take in.
I come to write about loneliness so often, but what a tired subject that has become for me. It comes at night, holds me down till morning, and the next day I could feel foolish for having such feelings.
I wish you could see hearts, but all we have is skin. There are scars, freckles, moles, bruises, cuts, burns. We find them ugly many times. I imagine a heart full of these things would be a beautiful, breathtaking sight. I think my heart would have lots and lots of freckles, some inexplicable scars, and some burns that are ever so slowly healing. A modest heart, but a handsome heart for a young man. Not yet a masterpiece, but well on its way. If we could see hearts, would we need to see anything else? Would I need to compose songs or write? Everything would be there, and it would just sit and wait for an admirer. You could see it through walls; it would shine for miles. Those searching for the right hue could just follow the light and give a knock on my door, saying, "Hello, I think you're the right one."
But humanity isn't so perfect. Every day at work, I ask hundreds of people, "How are you doing?"
"Surviving," they say.
And those people become small to me, because they are small to themselves. I wish I could see the hearts of people who say they're, "Just fine, thank you. How are you?" They're the ones I remember.
The ones I'll always remember are the ones who wanted to know how I was doing. The ones who email me, who think about me when their memories are sparked. Everyone needs that, but their aren't enough people who realize other hearts exist besides their own. All they see is a body of skin, imperfect and unworthy.
Once again, I'll go to bed tonight and wake up a fool tomorrow. But I write so seriously because I don't want to be a novelty. I am the clam clamping down on a pearl as dark as forever, and even if no one has the strength to open it, I hope someone keeps me because they already know I'm so rare it would be foolish to fill a pocket with any other thing imaginable.
I have tried and tried again and again, but I'm still trying.
I am am capable of everything, but my mother and I may be the only ones who appreciate it.
My eyes. I've always wanted big bright eyes, but they stay tired and squinted for all eternity. It's as if the sun is too bright. The world, in all of it's glory and ugliness, is just too much to take in.
I come to write about loneliness so often, but what a tired subject that has become for me. It comes at night, holds me down till morning, and the next day I could feel foolish for having such feelings.
I wish you could see hearts, but all we have is skin. There are scars, freckles, moles, bruises, cuts, burns. We find them ugly many times. I imagine a heart full of these things would be a beautiful, breathtaking sight. I think my heart would have lots and lots of freckles, some inexplicable scars, and some burns that are ever so slowly healing. A modest heart, but a handsome heart for a young man. Not yet a masterpiece, but well on its way. If we could see hearts, would we need to see anything else? Would I need to compose songs or write? Everything would be there, and it would just sit and wait for an admirer. You could see it through walls; it would shine for miles. Those searching for the right hue could just follow the light and give a knock on my door, saying, "Hello, I think you're the right one."
But humanity isn't so perfect. Every day at work, I ask hundreds of people, "How are you doing?"
"Surviving," they say.
And those people become small to me, because they are small to themselves. I wish I could see the hearts of people who say they're, "Just fine, thank you. How are you?" They're the ones I remember.
The ones I'll always remember are the ones who wanted to know how I was doing. The ones who email me, who think about me when their memories are sparked. Everyone needs that, but their aren't enough people who realize other hearts exist besides their own. All they see is a body of skin, imperfect and unworthy.
Once again, I'll go to bed tonight and wake up a fool tomorrow. But I write so seriously because I don't want to be a novelty. I am the clam clamping down on a pearl as dark as forever, and even if no one has the strength to open it, I hope someone keeps me because they already know I'm so rare it would be foolish to fill a pocket with any other thing imaginable.