I remember at 20 years old, I wrote in my poetry the reasons I wanted to die. I wish someone had told me then about manifestation. Maybe now I wouldn’t be trying to live from inside my grave.
To my younger self, my advice is to keep writing your pain, but also uncover what’s beneath the surface. Your unconscious only comprehends specifics, so “die” is the energy you’re radiating. And death will become you in some form, I assure you.
At age 24, you wrote that “dreams are what your soul already knows.” You said it yourself—your soul realizes your full potential. I beg you to tap into that. Your words will heal hearts and change lives.
But what you really need to know is that you must experience life. You have such a narrow focus of the world, and you’re clinging to the only person you allow yourself to know intimately. And she’s toxic for you.
If you keep believing you’re nothing, then you’ll spend a life with someone you don’t love. Yes, you love her with affection, but it’s not a passionate, addictive, twin flame connection. She’s someone you built a safety net out of, and I’ve been told humans aren’t safety nets. Humans aren’t built for safety.
Please keep in mind, if you don’t take this to heart, you’ll end up like me: Silently pleading to be set free. Awaiting someone to rescue you, but it’s too late. The key is gone, and the lights are off, and you mourn tiny moments like a miscarriage. You buy flowers, but they aren’t for your grave. You place them in your hair to give yourself purpose, but we know flowers are destined to wilt. It’s too late to become a flower child—you already dug your grave. Like playing musical chairs at a funeral, it’s inappropriate to antagonize the dead. And giving you false hope brings you to life only to die once again.
So please, don’t end up like me. I need you to promise me that you’ll let yourself live, feel, and breathe poetry. That once you start living like a work of art, you become a masterpiece.