Sometimes I wonder why I’m alive if you’re still here. What could I possibly offer the world that you haven’t already given it? What could I possibly offer another person that they haven’t already had? What could I possibly write that hasn’t already been written?
Because I realize that I could tear my chest open and it wouldn’t mean a thing because I’m empty. And not empty in the sense that nothing resides there, but empty as in lifeless. There’s so much heaviness, but I don’t have the energy to move it. I don’t have a reason to give anything in me a place to fly. There’s so much regret, but not a single reason to redeem myself.
There’s so much love in this heart of mine and it hangs on a string, waiting to be pulled, to feel something that unravels me and reveals gold. Instead I’m silver, but not the lining you truly want to see. Silver linings are false comforts, when you tell yourself that what you have is really what you need, but instead all you really want is what you can’t have. Silver represents the lies we tell ourselves to give our lives meaning. There’s always a silver lining, they say. Always a light at the end of the tunnel, always a rainbow after the rain.
But what if I’m tired of coming after the things that matter? What if I resent that the only time I come before anything is when I’m pretending to be the calm before the storm? What if I don’t find any meaning in living like the angel in the night anymore? What if I’m done being the light and I want to be the darkness, I long to be the storm?
It seems most people in this world crave the mysterious, the seductress that excites their dreams. It’s always there, that elusive desire for excitement, the forbidden flesh teasing us into biting into it, but we never taste the blood. Why do we always want more? Why isn’t our reality enough to keep us satisfied? So many surface questions that make me feel like I’ve just stepped onto this planet, because they’re things I should already know.
Why haven’t I broken down any walls? Am I afraid if I dig too deep that I’ll find my own demons living there? Or am I more afraid that the deeper I go, the less I’ll find? Like looking out into the distance and only seeing what’s in front of you. Or having no thoughts in your mind, chasing what you’ll never get to. Or realizing everything you possibly imagined was never yours to begin with. That it’s been all done before you.
That elusive “before,” the reminder that you will always come after. That any creativity you thought you had was scattered pieces of recycled images. Kind of like how life cuts you in pieces and you never piece yourself as you once were. You never come back to the same home in your own skin.