Søren Kierkegaard
~
Let there be light and many, many shadows.
I know you're tired. I'm tired too. And I don't think there's a word that stands between clarity and confusion. And I'm not even sure I know how to describe it. But my handwriting sure looks a lot like it. I need to finish that book. She's right – I never finish anything. I know. The depth of the word is the depth of the hurt. You keep saying that. But who cares? What will you gain from this? What will you learn? Nothing.
But maybe I just have a few things to say. When I was young, I always thought strangers had this mysteriously beautiful aura, this gleam that I needed to discover. It's not like that anymore. I wish it still were. I'm not sure that's what I wish. I'm not okay. I know you're not okay either.
Somewhere, right now, there's a snowstorm. And that snowstorm is set to music, a music no one can hear. Maybe the most well-kept secret is that matter is generated by consciousness. Then again, maybe not. And maybe I don't want to be understood because I know that once understood I'll be seen. I'll be seen for who I truly am – an ugly broken pen.
I don't know what's missing. I know that you don't know either.
The absent wind turns into these vapid words. And the old bland void strangles the breath. The answer plays in his imagination. But it's not really there. The only thing here is the night and it's racing the heart's attempt at throbbing to a slow death. The lights fade into his eyes and merrily turn to fire in hers. "Are you feeling what I'm feeling right now?" he asks. His skin is itching. His heart is aching. His art is lacking because he can't see her next to him, smiling. The pain pushes the pulsations back to a hellish pressure in the chest. Dawn won't be breaking soon. Your stars are the same as mine. Your soul is the same as mine. And... and I love you and that's all that matters. And maybe, even if you meet me, you would love me still. These roads don't need to be paved. They just need to carry your scent. And, yeah, I'll carry your heart and your smile and your laughter and your perfect face and anything you want – anything you want to picture in our future.
I know you think all we need is each other. I think so too.
Herein runs an emptiness that was once a red and flawed cardiac river.
And if it ever comes to back to life, you can have it.
~
"Hope is a new garment, stiff and starched and lustrous, but it has never been tried on, and therefore one does not know how becoming it will be or how it will fit. Recollection is a discarded garment that does not fit, however beautiful it is, for one has outgrown it."
Søren Kierkegaard