I doubt too, that I am a poet. There is no rhyme or structure to the thoughts that plague me and define what I have come to understand about the world and its ways. I lack the depth and beauty of character to be either a poet or a poem.
Am I a thinker? I hope so. Nothing is clearly in a straight line, is that not what life is? In all that mess though, gems of brilliance and perfection stick out which make me think that just, just, I may be a writer, poet and thinker rolled in one.
Good intentions pave the road to hell. We are nothing but the sum total of our actions and this is a reality that hits hard home thinking of everything that could have been but is not. I parade the hallways of memories reflecting at every stage. I have no emotion for what I see, for the greater part, because memories cannot enslave us in emotions that have no place in the present reality. We can only draw lessons, regardless of what we feel. Time waits for no man and it cannot be wasted feeling what I ought to have felt but did not. I do not mean to discard emotions but they have a place and purpose which are not present in the present scenario.
We could have been so happy. Have it all.
Somewhere along the path and with this broken heart I lost myself. Invested so much only to lose it. I do not cry because of that but the regret is deep seated and almost unsettling on days when all i have are memories. With an alarming frequency, those days are becoming the norm rather than the exception.
But, in all honesty, how can I not think about the beginning? How it all started and how I am in the never-ending conflict today? She laughed at herself so much because she never thought she would get excited over texts from a boy. I never knew wishing her a good morning would cause that much happiness. Knowing that she was happy made me happy in an odd way that, up to now, I still cannot explain yet I long for. We were never together for long but it felt like every time we were not together, we stood side by side and admired the clouds streaking across the sky in a mad frenzy. Life was perfect, in all its flaws.
The walks that never seemed to end were always so short, her laughter was always perfect. We would talk about the future with the audacity of gods who shape tomorrow and laughed like pain was still a galaxy away. The little we cared about the world, the more our concern for each other widened. I have no other way of explaining this except to say, surely, I had fallen madly in a deep affection. Love. In all I did, I waned to maintain the state of our togetherness because I had so much peace, happiness and joy.. If only my intentions could be matched by my actions.
When you lose a good thing, no matter what is is, your soul breaks into a million pieces. Pain is not virtuous, it cares not whether or not you are its author. It is a feeling, when it is there, you feel it. I realize that this is selfish and narcissistic. I do not necessarily have to apologize for that. This is not to claim moral superiority or justification- whoever has sinned shall atone for his own sins- but rather to explain a reality.
Like I said, i am not a writer. Nor a poet. Nor a thinker. I am just someone. I could be anyone.
So we live with the pain; the once full fiber of our existence reduced to dangling cords we grapple hopelessly with to come to terms with the monsters we have become. Giving up says more about our character than fighting that only drains and strains. The memories we created are not perfect, they need not be, they just have to be true. They were true. My soul speaks to everyone I lost because I realize I am lost too. It might be improper, but I crave for perfection in whatever form it will come in because everyone deserves a perfect human being in whatever form they come in.
Like I should have said, I could be a writer. Or a poet. Or a thinker. I am someone. I could be amazing.
Humble Narcissist (actually yes, the world does revolve around me) Spoken words for broken worlds. To visit my blog click here