This, this is letting. go.
Full of deep breathes, short-of-breathes, full stop, pauses. Repeat.
This, this is some remnants of you, but mostly of me.
This, this is the point.
Of not wanting leave, but not knowing how to stay.
This is it.
This is really. it.
The tiredness of hanging on seeps into one’s bones.
You feel your fingers slipping of the cliffs.
You grab on more.
You use every every single ounce of strength you have left.
But the exhilaration comes, of knowing that letting go means no more trying so hard, no more effort.
It’s tempting. It’s so near you can smell it, you can feel it.
The air of freedom.
This is it. I let go.
is when your name no longer rings the same connotation as it once did;
is knowing we are now just friends - however liberating that may be;
is when you second guess everything you once shared, every single detail and wonder if there is any ounce of truth in it;
Three tears for pain, hip hip hurrah!
“How do you feel?”
“Cold and lonely. Since the beginning of time, everything’s been moving away from me. That’s what it means to be at the centre. I don’t understand why anyone would want to be me.”
My worry is that what you measure yourself with ends up defining you. You pour yourself into the thing that measures you and it defines you. And I just hope that one day you find out that you’re fuller when you measure yourself in love and people and moments, instead of things, adoration and money.
Yet you still value the things you’ve lost the most. Because the things you’ve lost are still perfect in your head. They never rusted. They never broke. They are made of the memories you once had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day. They are made of the dreams of how wonderful…
The world would be easier if the homeless were all just lazy and all they needed to do was just get a fucking job.
The world would be easier if evil were a real thing, instead of just confusion, misunderstanding, miscommunication and misplaced desire.
The world would be easier if you could…
As you fall, remember that you are part of a beautiful story that did not start when you were born.
Remember that you are the universe exhaling, a breeze waiting to blow across a field of tall grass.
Remember, you are part of a beautiful story that did not start when you were born.
In bright white snow, when everything sleeps.
And hope has left you lonely.
When all you ever remember about summer is how it ended.
I send hope back to you, wherever you are.
I hope you remember all the people you still have time to be.
I hope the little things in your life inspire you to do big things with it.
I hope you remember that summer comes every year and that the sun, is still sweet.
I hope you learn to hope again.
I, still, hope.