My mother used to tell me stories about love. Love weaved shadows over sorrow, my mother said. Love transformed ugly things. It made them beautiful. Special. I grew up with love as my superhero. It was magical to me.
But when you’re little, everything is magical, isn’t it?
I grow older and the world goes darker. I miss finding beauty in things. I miss having hope. Were we just naïve or concealed from our bitter fates? Is there a difference? I think myself into thoughts I don’t understand because I’m scared if I stop thinking there will be nothing there. Is there ever anything there? Maybe we invent things in our minds so we can pretend life is about more than just living. Maybe love it just a chemical. Maybe nothing is real. Maybe everything is real.
Does it make you sad that nothing ever lasts?
That emotions are slippery, ever changing subjects to the mess that is our minds, that we are ruled by fear and frustration, materialistic constant consumers always searching, searching for nothing.
Does it make you sad that we have forgotten what it means to live?
‘I’m not living, I’m just wasting time.’
Everyone always says we’re on a journey. Everyone always tells us what to do even when they don’t. Everyone always has their own little mundane opinion that they want to tower over everyone else’s. I don’t care that you care about something. You don’t care that I care about something. We both think we’re important. Maybe we are. Probably we aren’t.
I don’t know who I am but I know what I am.
We’re ever changing, anyway.
Our opinions. Our personalities. Our relationships.
We carry our sadness like battle scars.
Probably nothing is consistent.
But don’t you think that the world is still beautiful?
Maybe love is still magical.
Maybe we all are.
I do not think I am as interesting as I think I am.
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