_And you will find no fear here, in unkind words or the hardness of others.
And you will find no sadness here, in the meanness of the world, in the anger that comes from those who feel small.
And you will find no hurt here, in a million insults or a single, softly spoken lie.
Because only a hard heart shatters.
Only a hard heart, breaks.
You are an end product of time. And time will always take its toll. Never regret the price you pay to become who you are.
The horror you face today will become the funny story you tell tomorrow. In the end, everything is overcome and a life is lived.
You keep trying to tell the truth about who you are but you keep changing, every time someone listens.
The universe curves, as does the Earth. And as hard as you try and run away from everything you are, you'll find yourself where you left yourself when you come home. Just tired. Fix yourself before you try and outrun yourself.
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 just be happy for what you had, while you had it. If you could eat memories like flowers to keep your heart alive.
The world would be easier if comfort didn't rest on the backs of the broken, if your swimming pool was dug by soft hands that never worked a day in their life.
The world would be easier if we all just got rich and famous and we were all each other's #1 fan.
The world would be easier if it were an automatic.
The world would be easier.
But it isn't.
The world is hard because it requires real human effort to make it turn.
The world is hard because you may wake up today but not tomorrow. And yet no one will accept "fear of death and a futile existence" as a reasonable excuse to miss work.
The world is hard because you will have to fight for the things you love or worse, fight the things you love.
The world is hard because the things you love will kill you.
The world is hard because it was made that way by thousands upon thousands of hard men and no one wants to admit we have no idea why we're doing the things we're doing anymore.
The world is hard because it's hard to forgive and even harder to forget.
The world is hard and you should just give up, right now. Just lay down and die. Nothing will ever be easier.
But, you don't.
But nothing is wasted. There's no song you can listen to, no person you can speak to, no moment it takes to see things as they are, that doesn't teach you something. You need everything you know.
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.
You spend your whole life learning what you shouldn't care about. Until one day you find out you didn't care enough.
If you open up too much, people can fall in and hurt themselves.
One day, you realise that there are some people you'll never see again. At least, not in the same way.
If nothing else, one day you can look someone straight in the eyes and say, "But I lived through it. And it made me who I am today.
Don't you dare tell me nothing matters. Everything matters. Every fucking drop of rain, every ray of sunlight, every wisp of cloud matters and they matter because I can see them and if I can see them then they can see me and I know that there's an entire world that cares out there, hiding behind a world that doesn't, afraid to show who it really is and with or without you, I will drag that world out of the dirt and the blood and the muck until we live in it. Until we all live in it.
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
I've tried to put you down on paper so many times. But you keep getting up.
We help people when big things happen to them, when you see them getting hit by a car, when a brother or a sister or a father or a mother dies, we're there for them because we can see that death kills more than the person it takes. And yet, the people around us who die a little all the time, moment by moment, who require the least help, the smallest sacrifice, are the ones we ignore completely.
I've tried to say it a thousand different ways. I've tried twisting the words inside out and doubling them back over onto themselves. I've tried coming up with words in different languages, because maybe they have words for this thing (I couldn't say what it is) that we're missing in this one. I've tried saying the same words over and over again in hopes that this time they'll mean what I want them to mean. I've tried writing it down and spelling it out and stressing each syllable across intercontinental static. I've filled up pages and pages of paper with what I'm trying to say, but never with what I mean to say.
Maybe it annoyed you in the end. Maybe I should just stop.
Similar to tricycles, summer, winter, autumn, spring, bruised knees, your first kiss and there is no Santa Clause, life is really just a series of things that happen. Sometimes to you.
Your life will be remembered. You will be reborn on the lips of story tellers. A whispering around a fire. A telling of a tale. You will become legend. Then myth. Then simply an idea. Ask yourself "What do I want to be remembered for? What idea do I want to become?"
Then answer yourself. And do it.
You know the difference between good and bad, right and wrong. No matter how much the voice inside your head tries to fool you, deep down, you know how your actions will affect the universe around you. Obey the silence inside. Ignore the noise.
You think you’re waiting for help. For someone to tell you what the right thing to do is. Even though, at the back of your mind, you already know what that is. So all you’re really waiting for, is a time when you’re forced to do it.
There are more grains of sand in the soles of your shoes than you will be given winters to dream or summers to make those dreams real.
And there are more stars in the sky than there are grains of sand on Earth.
We live in a universe so big that a dying star, in the greater scheme of things, is as significant as spilled milk or an unkissed kiss. In an infinite amount of time, everything that can be forgotten, will be forgotten.
In infinite, spilled milk and dying stars matter the same.
And if you're just someone brushing your teeth late at night or you're a planet breathing your last breath as you disappear into a black hole, everything you do matters just the same. Every breath you take is as important or unimportant as the sun in the sky or the moon in the night.
Scratching your ear, is a kind of miracle, depending on how you look at it.
You have been given a day. This day will be different. Because today you can do all the things you've always been afraid to do. You can feel the grass beneath your feet. See the sky overhead. The smell of fabric softener. The taste of coffee made by someone else. You can live. Today.
Every breath becomes a part of you. Then a part of the world. A part of you. Then a part of the world. Again. And again. And again. You are everything.
I know you don't want it to matter right now. That's why it matters the most.
This train goes straight through your heart but doesn't stop at the station. This train goes straight through your smile when someone names all your feelings. This train rides the contours of your skin. And I am banging on the windows, trying my best to get out.
"But this is just another box."
"No it's not, it's the box we put you in if you say 'Don't put me in a box.'"
A heart was meant to beat. And air was meant to be breathed, close to your ear. And your skin was meant to remember what mine felt like. And some songs were meant to play on repeat. And the sun was meant to come down. And we were meant to ignore it when it woke up. And days were meant to pass. And nights were meant to follow. And your eyes were meant to cry out whatever pain was left.
And I never meant to hurt you.
But I guess that's what everyone says.
The Centre of the Universe
"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."
“I’m jealous of children. I envy them.”
You said.
I asked you why.
“Because their pockets are empty. They don’t need to carry anything. No cell phones, wallets, car keys, cigarettes, lighters, iPods… you know what I mean? They’re free. As we get older, we give ourselves more and more things to worry about. To lose. Reasons to pat our pockets in a panic in case we’re missing something. A list to run through in our head before we walk out the front door. That’s why I envy children.”
I nodded and finished my drink, wondering if I had my wallet with me.
There is no need to escape. To break the chains. To storm the gates. To pick the locks. To kill the guards. You are already free. You just need to realise it.
Never love to be loved in return. You are playing a fool's game. The love you have is its own reward.
One day, you will die.You will stop and the world will carry on. Lovers will love. Others will shop, laugh and cry. Sometimes alone. Sometimes together. The radio will keep playing. But you will be gone. Only the love you gave, the souls you touched and the people you changed, will remain. They will carry on for you. They will pick up where you left off. There is nothing to be sad about here.
You are more than the people and things you know. You are more than your memories. You are something beyond all this. But only you know what that is.
You spill yourself in red, blue, green, white, silver, forgetting which colour is your own. They're all your own. You're not losing yourself. You're finding yourself in others.
The people who told you that the early bird catches the worm are also the same people who'll tell you later, after you've eaten a worm, that only fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Don't be shy. You can take another piece of me. Everyone else already has. Until there's nothing left. Until I disappear
You are not there. Somewhere in the future, suffering for something that hasn't happened yet. You are not there, in a place where all your worries manifest.
You are not there. Somewhere in the past, reliving your old mistakes and regrets. You are not there, in a place where memories resurrect.
You are here. Right here.
The Scratches That Made Me
You buy things and you keep them clean. You take care of them. Keep them in a special pocket. Away from keys and coins. Away from other things that should be kept clean and taken care of as well. Then they get scratched. And scratched again. And again. And again. And again. Soon, you don't care about them anymore. You don't keep them in a special pocket. You throw them in the bag with everything else. They've surpassed their form and become nothing but function. People are like that. You meet them and keep them clean. In a special pocket. And then you start to scratch them. Not on purpose. Sometimes you just drop them by accident or forget which pocket they're in. But after the first scratch, it's all downhill from there. You see past their form. They become function. They are a purpose. Only their essence remains.
The Moths Arrive In Black And White
The bad news is, people are crueler, meaner and more evil than you've ever imagined.
The good news is, people are kinder, gentler and more loving than you've ever dreamed.
The Layers Unseen
There is magic even here, in gridlock, in loneliness, in too much work, in late nights gone on too long, in shopping trolleys with broken wheels, in boredom, in tax returns, the same magic that made a man write about a princess that slept until she was kissed, long golden hair draped over a balcony and fingers pricked with needles. There is magic even here, in potholes along back-country roads, in not having the right change (you pat your pockets), arriving late and missing the last train home, the same magic that caused a woman in France to think that God spoke to her, that made another sit down at the front of a bus and refuse to move, that lead a man to think that maybe the world wasn't flat and the moon could be walked upon by human feet. There is magic. Even here. In office cubicles.
And you keep whispering the same story to yourself "I'll be unhappy now because that'll make me happy later. Because that's how a story works." So your happiness will always happen later, never now. Life isn't a story. Life is chaos.
You became what you thought everyone wanted you to be. But that's not who you are. And that's who I wish you were.
And if you can't say yes, answer anyway. Because I'd rather live with the answer than die with the question.
These things take time to remember. But you weren't always like this. I knew you before.
Life doesn't give you a second canvas. So all you can do is paint on. And, sometimes, even over.
I always thought that I was sick and you were the cure. But everyone gets things backwards sometimes.
All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that's the tragedy of living.
“Most importantly, if you can at all avoid it, don't be normal. Strive, burn and do everything you can to avoid being the industry standard. Even the highest industry standard. Be greater than anything anyone else has ever dreamed of you. Don't settle for pats on the back, salary increases, a nod-and-a-smile. Instead, rage against the tepidness of the mundane with every fiber of whatever makes you, you. Change this place.
Please, do that for me.”
You can be as logical, rational and objective as you want, it's not going to change the way you feel. Put it this way; you telling me that lunch is in an hour doesn't make me less hungry.
I'm not the person you left behind anymore. There's no one here to miss.
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 things could have been and must never suffer the indignity of actually still existing. Of being real. Of having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating.
Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.
You will only be hurt a finite number of times during your life. You have an infinite number of ways to deal with it.
And I don't know who you are, or why you say the things you say, but you need to get out of me. Here, there's only space for me.
I do not have to look at the clock to know that it's midnight. I can feel the day rushing across the world, as fast as time. But somewhere, there is a beach that time cannot reach. Where everyone and everything has always been and never was. And perhaps, you are there waiting for me. In that place, time cannot touch.
Just like you mistook lust for love, you have mistaken being alone with loneliness. So I'm fine. Thank you for asking.
You should tell them the truth. Tell them that if they hold on too tightly, love might cut them. Tell them to hold on tightly anyway. Tell them everything is worth it and that the richness of life is only ever enhanced by its inevitable, brief flashes of sadness and loss.
You are in some songs that still get played on the radio when the DJ is feeling nostalgic.
You are in a book you once lent me (never returned) with yellowed pages.
You are in trees when I touch them, even ones without names carved into them.
You are in the way someone on the street laughs as I pass them.
You are in a box I keep filled with letters.
You are in a ring I no longer wear.
And, every day, you each get a moment to haunt me.
People aren't sand. No matter how many you have around you and no matter how they feel about you. You still have to love them one at a time.
It may have just been a moment to you, but it changed every single one that followed for me.
The Possibility Of Clouds And Thunder Showers
Oh, how I wish you wouldn't worry so. There's hope in every breath. But when fear infects the bones, I'm told, the heart is always next.
The Ouroborus I Fell In Love With
Where you are, right here and now, this is how bad stories end. But it's also how the best stories, begin.
The Tales From The Bar
You're just another story I can't tell anymore.
And you asked why people always expected you to smile in photographs. And I told you it was because they hoped that in the future, there would be something to smile about.
I told you it was cold. You told me “Summer’s mosquitoes are quickly forgotten in winter.” I only really get it now.
When hurt turns red and a piece of your heart is missing. When the cold bites deep and you’ve got that feeling like you just got out of surgery. When the only way to stay sane is to concentrate on anything else but how you feel. When you count the tiles in the ceiling. When you push the earphones closer. When the first day of winter arrives. When you remember every nuance of every word of every time. When all this happens. Embrace it. Feel every feeling. Cry every tear. Sob every sob. Because this is what it feels like to have loved.
Life is not complicated. You are complicated. Want less and you will have less to accomplish. Want more and be prepared to struggle for it.
You decide every moment of every day who you are and what you believe in. You get a second chance, every second.
You could end it now. Tear it off and be done with it. But it will heal slower. The end need not be so bitter.
You'll be glad to know that all the people who are the best at what they do are also the people who are the best at being nice to the people around them
Leave bread crumbs. Don't burn the bridges too soon. And always know your way home.
All the greatest success stories start in failure. Otherwise they wouldn’t be success stories. You can make this the end. Or you can make it the beginning.
It’s in your head and no one else’s. You need to calm down.
And now?
Star the night.
I'll night the stars.
And now?
Breathe my breath.
I'll breath your breathing.
And now?
Speak under the water.
I'll water this speaking.
And now?
Until you are still.
I will always be still.
Until.
And now.
You're still here but I am still the sea. And as peaceful as I seem, please don't ever turn your back on me.
Those who walk away from you in the dark should be forgotten in the light.
And when we speak now, seldom as that is, the old language returns. I wonder if it makes old names make guest appearances in your mind. If you can feel the skin of my neck near yours one more time. Do you reach across the bed for a shape, no longer there. Do you remember it clearly or is it all just memories of memories. Is there still warmth from my fingers tracing the contours of your skin, left somewhere in your body. If you smell the smell of how I used to smell in a crowd, do you think of these things. Is something missing in everyone else's or someone new's voice. Will they never know quite how to laugh or breathe just behind your ear. Do they know what you look like when you want to leave a party, when you've had too much of people. Could they rebuild your body out of clay if they needed to, because they've touched it so many times. Does your back still arch the way it used to when I still kissed you.
Does an old singer sing an old song on an old radio.
Do the lyrics still shake your fucking soul.
Did it sound like this?
Making you regret what you did to me is not 'me winning'.
It's everyone still losing.
That the way light bounces off your skin has nothing to do with who you are.
That smokers believe they need to die a little, just to go outside.
That art has always hated the frame you put it in and would lash out, kicking and screaming in the streets, if you gave it half a chance.
That the way lovers touch can not be communicated in words, no matter how often or how hard you try.
That your body fights your mind and your mind fights your soul and your soul fights the world, to try and figure out what you are.
That sometimes, you're just tired.
That's all.
I built you a house and a garden inside my head. I know you'll be happy there.
I guess I should say thank you, for cutting all my strings. But if it's all the same to you, I wish you'd left my wings.
The least you could do, is uncross your heart. Unhope to die.
When you can, let me know how long you're willing to miss me for.
I'm made of dreams and memories.
I am made of misheard whispers in the dark.
I am made of glances across crowded rooms.
Of the closeness of strangers in a line outside a movie.
I am made of the corners of your mouth.
I am made of awkward elevator rides and the lack of security one finds on a doorstep, at the end of the evening, when one has enjoyed the company of another.
I am made of the train tracks that take me home.
I am made of ghost notes, from songs you never heard.
So forgive my absence. But I was never really here to begin with, anyway.
If you don't know whether you're coming or going maybe it's time to just stop.
You know all their stories but none of their stories know you.
And you've felt all their pain but their pain has never bothered feeling you.
So you take their medicine. Even though you've had too much medicine.
You are in all our thoughts. And we will keep you there, safe and sound, until you feel better.
Everyone edits themselves here, and it makes me wonder whether you're ever actually connected to real people, or just the people they all wish they were.
Everything that needs to happen, will happen, in the time that it takes to happen, the way it was meant to happen.
You’ve left me alone to take care of the wounded. The least you’ve could’ve done was help me bury the dead.
You see suns that never were and stare at skies that don't exist. You listen to songs that were never played and read books that were never written. And your mind is so beautiful and full. But I'm glad it's not mine.
Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
I promised a lot.
But never that I wouldn't get back up after you knocked me down.
Never that my broken remains wouldn't catch fire.
Never that I wouldn't burn through the ice and snow one more time.
And you can slam your glaciers into to me, so slowly, and even though they hurt, I will not go numb from the cold, I will not pass out from the pain, I will look up at you and the world and whisper through bloody teeth
"More..."
Just so you know, I checked and it's all going to be ok. I promise.
Love who and what you love because you love them. Not because other people do. Or don't. Just tell them how you feel. Is anyone going to die? No. But one day, you will. Would you like to do that before or after you tell them?
I keep thinking you already know. I keep thinking I've sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.
Hold the peace inside yourself. Do not let it depend on other people, the day you’re having, the work you have to do or any of the other flotsam and jetsam of life. Let it depend on you and the choice you make to feel it.
If you missed me saying it, I miss you.
The people you know. The people you knew. What you’ve learned. Your memories. All these things, these ghosts come together to make up nearly all of who and what you are. The last part is your soul. Your spark. That is beyond ghosts.
When I am more than you can take, just give me back.
You are well within your rights to stand up, interrupt everyone around you and say "This is not who I am. This is not what I want. I'm sorry, but you've mistaken me for somebody else."
We are all as much a part of you as you are a part of all of us.
Where you are, right here and now, this is how bad stories end. But it's also how the best stories, begin.
Please words. I need you now (the and and you two especially). I need you to tell the truth. To say things as they are. Don't be words that I say too fast, words that I have to defend. Please don't listen to me when I tell you to do the wrong things, be the words you were meant to be. Be honour and fire place and celler door. Be slow and sunrise and sunset. Be a phrase "I know they come again." No words more than needed, just enough to say what I mean and mean what I say. Please words. Work.
You look at me and think “This is who they were all along.” But this is just who I am to other people. And you became other people.
This is the song I only sing when you're sleeping. These are the words I say when you can't hear me. This is the way I look when you can't see me. And you will never know.
Don't read too deeply into the things I say. You might drown.
The universe made you the way you are.
Which is why it loves you, just the way you are.
When you're at that point, when you feel it's all pointless... It's not. The trick is to just keep doing it, that's how you succeed in the end. It's the secret to life, do anything often enough, and for long enough, and you get good at it. So keep on. Keep writing. Keep painting. Keep singing. Keep dancing. Keep fighting. Keep. On.
Failure is the universe’s way of telling you to either try harder or try something else. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Just between you and me, no one really knows what's going on.
Thank you for calling/standing near me/being concerned. But I am not here right now. I am somewhere else. And you cannot reach me. Please leave me at the sound of the beep.
Maybe we're all echoes of each other. Maybe that sound is all you are,
This is where I write something for you. This is where I sit down and open a vein. This is where I miss you. This is where I try and find the feeling of prickled skin. This is where I push the headphones closer. This is where I tell you what I think. This is where I tell you what I know. This is where I tell you that it’ll all be ok. This is where I talk to a stranger who isn’t a stranger. This is where I keep my peace, hope, love and happiness. This is where the wind blows. This is the mulberry bush. And around and around we go.
Your distinct inability to give a fuck occasionally will land you in hot water. Do not be concerned as the situation is only temporary.
May we all get what we need and forget what we want.
And yet, of all these things, we feel sadness the most. We are never buoyed upon an ocean of apathy. We are never crushed by complacency. We are never moved by the okayness of the world. Sadness and pain, to help us flee danger and hurt. To help us get away when we're bleeding. You have a body and it screams "Something stirs like broken glass in my chest, leave this place, before I die." An animal part of us, still here after all these years, breaks our hearts.
They say they’ll put you back together while they’re tearing everything apart. And they use the type of lips you can taste for years.
So I sat there on the bench and got lost in the faces of people I'd never know or meet because like them, my life is too busy for strangers.
I missed the train today. And you.
I made myself from all the love you no longer wanted.
When they are gone, you will remember every single opportunity you had to speak them. And didn't.
All I want, is for you to want this.
All I need, is for you to need this.
All I have, is what I don't.
You expect the characters you cast to behave a certain way. To read from the script. But the best ones never do.
I know you're just a rag doll now, sewn together with memories that we might have had. I know you're just the dream inside of a dream
And don't worry, I know I don't know you, anymore.
Just because you don't like the world right now, don't let it turn you into something you like even less.
You make your own choices every day. Whether or not to get out of bed. To smoke. To drink. To drive. To walk. To have a job. To go to that job. To hate. To love. To live. Sometimes you forget how in control you really are.
It might not seem like an adventure right now but when you look back, you'll see.
This isn't me missing you. This is me missing the me I used to be.
This isn't me.
But really, everything happens all at once. Every single moment that's passed and the moments still to come are all happening right now, in this moment. You are young. You are old. You laugh. You cry. You smile. You win. You lose. You don't care about either anymore. You love. You don't. You love again. You hurt. You heal. All at once. There's nothing and no one to miss because it's all still happening. They're still here. And it'll all continue to happen, forever.
You can tell lies. Lose weight. Paint your face. But in the dark, stripped down to your bones, all that remains is you.
The movies you make in your head are the reality you live each day. Be careful what you tell the director.
Buildings crumble. People die. Friends move away. But your memory of them will always stand. And they will be as real there, inside you, as they were when they were standing next to you. Your memories are real. They are the dreams of the past. And they will live with you always.
Blooming like a late night with fast cars and back seats. You mistook nature for human nature and didn’t even care.
I fell in love with the way you wrote. How you took the time to say exactly what you meant instead of leaving everything to those inane moments when we’d meet in the street, making strange noises with our mouths in the hope that they’d somehow convey how we felt. You and I were always better written down than standing up.
I'm sorry. But you could never tell the difference between the mood you were in, and me.
Only because it's still so raw and real. Soon I'll just be a series of images that sometimes flash through your mind, when you least expect it. And after that, only a few will stay. Then, one. A memory of a memory.
I don't have a hope in hell. Which is why I'm clawing my way out, one inch at a time.
As soon as things start being the way they should be instead of the way they are, I’ll start telling them to you that way.
"But I just want to stop feeling."
"As far as I can tell, there's only one way to stop feeling and that's to die."
"That seems a bit drastic."
"It is drastic. Perhaps the most drastic thing there is. There are other ways to kill feelings, like drinking a lot or working hard, constantly, pushing those around you as far away as possible until there's no way for you to reach out to them but ultimately, the only way to completely stop feeling, forever, is to die."
"I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
"Good. You'll be a better person for it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the most interesting, amazing people I've ever met, the ones who influenced and shaped the universe itself, are the ones that felt too much but lived through it."
"That sounds hard."
"It is. It involves living."
Know someone as much as you can. Hold onto the moments that define them. Then when their body leaves, they won’t.
The Hi-hello-how-are-you?'s. The I'm-fine-and-you?'s. The slight nod of the head. The threads that bind you to everyone else. It's coded language for a constant reassurance. "I'm alive. You're alive too."
You think you’re the only one who feels small. You think you’re the only one who isn’t sure what tomorrow might bring. You think you’re the only one who’s scared the world might eat them. We suffer together and hold each other tight because when we touch each other, we know. You are never alone. Ever.
And you can tell when you look at them that it's everyone else who made them this way. Or maybe just, someone else.
Trust those around you. We all share the same basic human condition. We all want. We all need. We all love. We all hurt. So trust them. Even when you’re falling. We all fall sometimes.
You've written my story backwards. You've taken my chapter out your book. Now I'm just a prologue. A dedication.
For you.
And no, I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm doing it again.
You will forgive me, I hope you don't mind me saying, I just wanted to add, if you've got time and I've said it before and I'll say it again, because you should know, before we go any further, we should put everything on the table because the reality is and the truth is and the fact of the matter is, I shouldn't interrupt but I was wondering and if you know, please tell me, how we manage to say so much, without saying anything at all.
If you look closely enough, people are beautiful.
You remember all the things you've lost. Because your scars are like stars. Yet the night stays perfectly black.
I just want you to know that I know you from after, after all this is over. And there are some parts of you cannot be touched, no matter how they touch you. You're ok when I know you. Everything's ok.
You don't get to pull these stitches out. No matter how much I still love you.
After darkness, there is always light. Every time it rains, it stops raining. Every time you hurt, you heal. Nothing lasts forever. Not the good or the bad. So you might as well smile while you're here.
You don't have to be the person you tell people you are. You can just be who you are.
If you find yourself inside yourself, scratching at the edges and clawing at the walls, breathe more. Think less. Your shadow is only a shadow. And stay away from mirrors. They will only confuse you.
They miss you as much as you miss them. If not more.
This moth lives for just one day, and yet, you will never see it fall to the ground and curse the futility of its existence. Nor flowers weep when winter comes. Nor the moon sigh when dawn approaches. We are only ever given just so much. But it is always, all we need.
What the people around you think of you isn't important. What you think of them, is.
You can't change what you've done. What you can do now and in the future is another story entirely. Worry less. Do more.
Sometimes I can't work out if you're a friend who wants to talk to me or an enemy who wants to take from me.
Sometimes the night is dark and stormy. Sometimes the ghosts of what you had run their fingers down a spine. And when that happens, you want to turn to the last page. Don't. You'll ruin the story.
Well then let them hate you but let it be because you are a good person in a bad world and bad always hates good.
You are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for.
Charge accordingly.
Strip this bark. Carve a name and a heart into me. Please.
The bad news is, your choices and intentions, some people and places, those nights spent awake and all you've done, can lead you to the bottom of the pit. The good news is, this wouldn't be the first time someone's crawled, tooth and nail, out of hell.
Sometimes you need the people around you to tell you what's right in front of you.
You had the sadness and too much of it. There's no chemo for that except time.
Some thoughts will chase you from your childhood to the end of the house and back again. They'll sit there, hanging in the cobwebs, waiting to be thought back to life. Hiding in the walls. The smell of a book. The way the light shines at a certain point in the day. But there are other thoughts, new thoughts, that can take the place of old thoughts. Think them well and often.
And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.
As you put down the poison, I asked you why you stopped if it felt so good. You told me that you had a feeling that one day you were going to meet some incredibly important people. Who would love you and care for you more than anyone else in the entire world. And you would feel the same way about them. And that every time you picked up the poison and ended your life a little bit more, you were stealing from them. These people who would love you. They will give you a feeling greater than any poison ever could. Don’t steal from them.
Love the people who give you what you need. Be careful of the people who give you what you want.
This place is in my head and no matter where I run, it's always here, all around me. It's a big room and my voice echoes when I yell, and there are days when I think you couldn't make it to the other side if you tried.
No matter how you look at me, I am still here and I am still the same person made of the same things. I regret nothing.
Mourn the things you lose. Celebrate the lessons they taught you. And know that this too shall pass.
And in you and in all of us, there is nothing more than the capacity to be a force for, or a force against. And to wonder, how many people wake up each morning and can't decide if they want to save the world, or destroy it.
You are defined by the way in which you treat the people you love. And, the people you hate.
Just pretend you're in a movie. Be as brave and as full of love as the main character. Because we all need to believe in movies, sometimes.
You have people looking after you everywhere you go, even if you don't know they're there.
The world you love spins so fast, all I can do is throw words at it. And hope they become pictures.
I already know what your plans for the weekend are.
I've been thoroughly briefed on the weather.
I've extrapolated your metaphors to illustrate your point.
I've heard your dissertation on what's wrong with the world.
I've paraded along next to your monologue.
So please. For me
Fill this silence with the words you promised to say.
You might not always like me, the things I do or the way I do them. But these are my things, this is the way I do them and I am me.
My memory of you fractures and splinters until all I can clearly remember is not a picture but a feeling.
You say that the way I feel, it's all just chemicals in my brain.
It's all just strange air in my atmosphere.
It's all just new colours in my rivers.
But you are my industry.
You are my factory.
You are my smoke stacks.
You are my production line.
You are my cheap sneakers.
You are my fast food.
And I'm a planet you once called home.
That's nearly out of air.
One day you can look someone in the eyes and say "But I lived through it. And it made me who I am today."
You’re all tangled up in other people. Their worries have become your worries. Their expectations of you have become the expectations you have for yourself. Their dreams are slowly turning into your nightmares.
You are not other people.
Light hits the eyes the universe gave me. Time throws slow punches but they hurt all the same. You are a secret I can never give up.
Every breath becomes a part of you. Then a part of the world. A part of you. Then a part of the world. Again. And again. And again.
You are everything.
In order to do really great things, you need to make really great mistakes.
I want to listen to you. I want to open the door. I want you to tell me your story, in your words. The books don't do it justice. I can’t hear you unless you speak.
You took all my words when all I wanted to do was say them.
Life is just the novel you write on your coffee break. And your novel is just a collection of lies you'd like to remember. And all that you remember, is the distance from here, to then.
I don't miss you now. I miss you then.
And I'm sorry if I haven't written to you in a while. It's just that life gets in the way of living. It's just that my fingers were stuck together. It's just that all the paper in the world caught fire. You'll forgive me if I haven't written in a while. It's just that all the envelopes made love to dragonflies and now, we cannot bring them down. It's just that time stopped ticking. It's just that all the ink ran clear. My apologies if I haven't written in a while. It's just that words ran out of letters (these are the last in the bag). It's just that language isn't perfect. It's just, me.
I would set up shop inside your heart and charge the world to love you.
I pray you're ok. That it's ok. I pray all the parts of you that I remember are still there. I pray that you're happy. Even if it's not with me.
The Questions Buildings Ask:
Why did you build me, if all you wanted to do, was knock me down.
Why did you raise me, if all you wanted to do, was bring me low.
Why did you make me, if all you wanted to do, was break me.
I'd finish you if I could. But every time I try to read you, I lose my place.
There's a folder of pictures I can't open.
There's so many songs that don't sound the same.
There's a number I can't dial and a message I can't send.
There's a restaurant I can't eat at, not with any friends.
There's words and names I can only say in my head.
There's a pair of eyes that belong to you, that I can never look into again.
Someone you haven't even met yet is wondering what it'd be like to know someone like you.
You want a new life. But you take the new one you get every morning for granted.
But really, all we want, and I speak for the entire human race here, is contact. Someone to let us know that we aren't alone. That the world isn't a dream and you and I really are happening at the same time, even if it's not in the same place. That this is real. You're really there. I'm really here. We're real. This is real.
Sometimes it feels like it's all happening to someone else. Someone like you. And I'm just watching.
Change the world. Just don't let it crush you in the process.
You're too pretty to be weird and too weird to be pretty. And you feel strange when people try to talk to you. So get a job, it's safer than art. Maybe people won't point and stare so much. Even if they're only in your head. Especially if they're only in your head.
Remember what happened. But know that you cannot move forward while looking backwards.
I like to think that somewhere out there, on a planet exactly like ours, two people exactly like you and me made totally different choices and that, somewhere, we're still together. That's enough for me.
You say "I love you." and I sit here waiting like a forgotten alchemist, for lies to turn to truth.
If love and beauty were easy to find, they would not exist. Chaos and sadness exist in order for you to find the love and beauty in them. So that love and beauty mean something. It's meant to be hard.
You'll be as shocked as I was to discover that their last words weren't "Did everybody like me?"
I hope you get what you want or you want something new. I hope you appreciate how you feel now when you start to feel differently. I hope you spend your time with someone you love, even it's just you.
Somewhere, someone knows the words to the songs you sing.
If you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, make sure it's not the flames from the bridges you've burnt.
Times will be tough like old leather and gravel roads occasionally. Times will be easy, like Sunday morning, every now and then. What you do during these times will define you as a person and a human being. Your humanity towards others, your will to make the world a better place for you and those around you and your identity as a citizen of the world. All these things count.
The good night calls. But still, you do not go gentle.
You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and counting crows. Someone. Anyone. But anyone could be someone if only you looked a little closer.
All your mountains are man made. But you climb them all the same.
Some days it seems like it'll never end. Like there's just too much to do. The reality of the situation is, you'll never be finished. If you finish all the work you've got to do, you'll find more to do. You can never really reach the end. So accept that. Be ok with it. Find the peace you're looking for in the now. In this moment. Right now. Every now.
You only get to touch a handful of souls in your lifetime. Know them well and make sure they remember you.
It is here that things are not yet set, everything is possible and promises can either be broken or kept.
You can be happy tomorrow. You can be happy when you get through your list of things to do. You can be happy when you meet the one. You can be happy when you get the right job. You can be happy when you get that raise. You can be happy when you stop buying the things you need and start buying the things you want. You can be happy when you retire. You can be happy when the weather suits you. You can be happy on a plane. You can be happy in the rain. Or you can stop reading this, take a deep breath, and be happy right now.
If you run, make sure you’re running towards something. Never away.
I think you'll find you're mistaken. My name is clearly written across the front and I recognise the scratch down the side (that happened in high school). This is my heart. You can't just come here, and take it.
Life is not a story. No matter how much you'd like it to be.
What I meant to say was, sometimes I stare at the cigarette in my hand and beg it to stop wasting my time and just kill me. But I figured you didn't want to hear that.
Everything scratches. Everything dents. No matter how many times you polish it.
You need to be ok with this. Nothing is new forever.
You can chase the shadows if you want to. But all you'll do, is make them longer.
If winning is getting up one more time than you fall down. If strength is more than muscle. If time teaches us patience. And knowledge gives us grace. Then we will go forward. Remembering the past. But never yearning for it. There is so much more to look forward to.
You have such beautiful voices in your head. Let them speak.
No one would ever think such mean thoughts about you. No one would ever say something so hurtful. No one would ever hit you so hard. Except yourself. You are always the meanest person you know. And only you can stop you.
You feel this way today. You will feel different tomorrow. Cycles and waves. Repeating into eternity.
"The Saviour Got Lost In The Mirror": If the only reason you help is so that you can tell people that you help, I don't need your help.
And so, I wait because you have already left and my work here, is done. I wait and wonder how my skin feels like it’s made of love letters written a hundred years too soon (too late). I wonder at the mystery of life and how much of it can possibly remain. I wonder at pain and hurt and love and time and how much of each I held. I wonder at how I cannot remember anything in my life before I met you. I wonder at the tiniest of touches and try, desperately, to keep their memories alive. I wonder at loneliness. I wonder at how long it’ll be, before I see you again. I wait. And I wonder.
If you hold it in, to protect the world, you'll save everyone. But yourself
You get to choose the people you like. Not the people you love.
_"You're not alone. Everyone is a victim. Everyone is an aggressor. It's okay to be weak, it's okay to be sad, it's okay to cry, it's okay to be human. Don't be too hard on yourself. Life is tough but if you choose to end it, think about the people, the trauma that you'll leave behind. Life is hard, sometimes unforgiving, but you need to crawl before you can run again."
_