For the better or for the worst, who does not optimistically assume better of themselves than is realistic?
are a bundle of good-will and aimless energy
are sweet innocence and a lifetime of bitterness.
are eloquence and stutters, contradictions.
are colliding thoughts
the whispered and the screaming,
incurably maddening and impenetrable.
are soiled and dirtied and jaded and anxious and shaken and sad;
impossibly overwhelmed by it all.
are the tender and enraged
the beautiful and the burdened,
the heavy-hearted but unfalteringly brave and forgiven because You
are the devil
and the divine
and the mortal all in one,
but still choose to trudge onwards,
to infinity and beyond,
I promise complexity.
I promise turbulence.
I promise that I too often feel nostalgia for experiences I have yet to call my own.
I promise contradictions.
I promise imperfection
and I promise that I fail to admit that with no shame.
I promise resolute ignorance.
I promise paranoia.
I promise petty frustrations
but also miracles and scepticism.
I promise that I doubt blind faith but often close my eyes anyway.
I promise that I too often try to intellectualize that which is beyond me.
I promise I am often crippled by an inability to articulate…
which refuse to fit in the confines of language.
that I feel too much.
I promise my bad habits.
I promise my mania.
I promise absurdities.
I promise narcissism (Instagram me)
and I promise that I lie (I don’t actually have Instagram).
I promise that I am capricious.
I promise moments of abject self-pity.
I promise that I can be frustratingly humble
for I feel like a fraud sometimes
…all the time.
I promise that I sometimes dream
and alternatively, I promise that I sometimes,
I am too tired to dream at all.
I promise that I am as corruptible as the next Man
and so too are you.
So at the same time that I say I promise you everything,
know that I promise nothing at all
for it is inevitable that I will sometimes forget
why I did, am and should continue trying.
But in the periods where I remember,
I promise you
that Identity and Existence weighs heavy on our souls;
that crying “I am I” can sometimes be too harrowing to utter;
that I sprint knowing that these shoes are too big for me to fill
but I promise you,
that I will keep running anyway.
I had seen you die a thousand deaths before I loved you
You hated the texture of your thoughts;
cursing your mind for being too alive.
Haunted by awareness,
you bled from its cruelty
as you gifted the air with ragged breathes, wrenched from your corrupted lungs,
and I knew, then, with a sinking desperation in my heart,
that you have, for too long now, forgotten how to cry.
So I will teach you;
cry for you
for I am the slow, corrosive kind of devastation that crawls under your skin
and kisses you.
Watching you try to piece together the world into something coherent,
increasingly maddened by its non-conformity and utter bullshit
Hollow. Hollow. Hollow. You were too busy screaming that your insides felt so hollow
to hear me say
– the saddest plea I have ever voiced,
made worse by its utterance to the vacant air
because, Precious, that day, I learnt the taste of your 1000th goodbye
and it was so bitter,
it tasted like mine.
You say that life is a slow death
But you forget that
there exists solace in the chaos
And then, Rebirth.
So when you live again,
I will whisper, tenderly, the only truth I know:
that you are a hurricane wreaking havoc to my insides;
that I am the hemlock nobody forced you to take;
that there can be an unutterable beauty
in feeling at peace with the pain;
that you have seen me die a thousand deaths too many
you will learn to love me
I am growing tired of waiting to love you.