You were so fluent about death. I would recognize the idea how death is a part of life and cherishing it is nothing out of the ordinary, but you were so in love with it that your feet seems to have been taken off the ground. Don't float away just yet, windmill.
So maybe you think love is supposed to fade but I don't. Quantum theory theorized that our consiousness is deported to another universe after death. That's almost the same as immortality. How could you fade? How could any of us do?
The storm yesterday made me think about a lot of things into depths, like hell's. You've sat on the railing of the third floor's building during a similar grey storm in November and even now,
My alter ego tends to replace what I can't have with something far more impossible. Replacing sound a bit underestimating, though. Perhaps it's more like they undergo mitosis: with one parent cell and another daughter cell. They're the same but they're different.
December of my fourteenth year, I was writing from under my bed, I was a being with beliefs of mundane days. I was drove into a corner. Death, death, death. That year, the Sun faced me with a sucker punch right in my fucking face. I wrote of deceitful love, I listen of mourning cries, I was alone. December of my fourteenth year, narrative was of my own ink on my own paper. I cling to remnants of faith. God? Hah. I didn't feel anymore. The only prayers of mine that was heard was of me, crying in the car with my dad turning the steering wheels around, the pitch of tyres gliding on the slippery tar.
December of my fifteenth year, I know of a boy with smiles and his eyes are like eyes. That doesn't make sense but he doesn't either so why should I do. The Sun retrograded. I was alone and lonely. He fell asleep next to me. He laughed just a little too loud. Before I know of anything, before the first rain of December could begin to fall, I was loving another broken pieces of a being that I didn't care the Sun was turning its back on me. I was fifteen when I know first loves and colour of hurtfulness. Christmas hurls me into affection, limitless and abundant, like the days of our lives. He was the only one I wanted.
December of my sixteenth year, I began to love, not of another separate being. Revelation was staring me straight into my eyes in a dark room, I know the price of pride. I was loving myself instead of a boy. And god knows, it was something far more difficult than any sort of love there is out there. I tethered my own thoughts, my own views on love and appeals.
This one night, my sister and I were putting bread on the tar road, a whole loaf of it and we just laughed out of it. It hits me, right at that fucking moment, my ribs hurted so bad and that in this world, exist far worse thing than a boy not loving you back. If no one would show you the loveliness of your being then you show them, make them believe you're lovely.
The Sun decided to kiss me too slowly the early December of my sixteenth year. I wanted you to know it's not about you anymore, that maybe you never faded but you were a lesser love, now.
