If you tie every word you’ve ever heard about yourself on a string around your head, one day you won’t be able to lift it anymore.
I know you might think that you’re just sitting there, looking at some random website, reading some stupid words and maybe the world has told you who you are for so long that you’ve started to believe it. But, please, remember that you’re so much more than this.
Remember who you really are.
Just then, right in the middle of the brilliant monologue your defence attorney is delivering about all the things you’ve done and all the people who love you, the prosecution slides a note over to you, “Don’t ever forget, everybody hates you.”
You add it to the pile of notes he’s already given you, which read:
“No one will ever understand you in the way that you desperately want them to understand you.”
“You will watch all your favourite musicians kill themselves and all your movie stars will grow old.”
“Everything you’ve ever made has been trite and cliche and horrible. In fact anyone who’s ever said they’ve liked anything of yours has done so out of pity”
“One day you and someone you love will find yourself in a room and one of you will be dead and the other will wish they were.”
All of which he will later enter as Exhibit B in the long, drawn out court case to convict you of being simply pathetic and sad and useless at everything, really.
And yet your defence attorney carries on. And you know that sometimes, he’s fighting for your life.
The scariest thing you can think of, is giving up the thing that kills you. The thing you can’t live without.
You just wake up and say, “Today I will write the most beautiful thing I’ve ever written.”
Then you fail and go to bed.
Then you wake up and say it again.
You are not what you think about doing tomorrow.
You are what you start to do, today.
The hardest thing to do when you go back underwater, is talk about what the sky was like.
You’ve got such beautiful words but none I can eat, none which block the rain, none which bandage my wounds, none which build a home.
Nothing beautiful, which did not work, ever became anything more than pretty.
It doesn’t hurt because if you keep hurting the same part of you again and again and again, the nerve endings all die. And when that happens, that part of you goes numb. That’s why it doesn’t hurt. Don’t be proud of it.
You forget that even the strongest person to ever live had a weakest day of their life.
I keep wondering, how many people do you need to be, before you can become yourself.
Do practical things if you want your tombstone to read
“They were practical.”
Do what makes sense if you think it should say
“Their life made sense.”
Do what the world wants if you believe in the epitaph
“They did what the world wanted them to do.”
But if you want it to read
“They lived every second they were given
and touched the sky every chance they had,
they burned and blazed in all the colours the eye can see
and left a hole shaped like them in the world
when they left.”
Then do something else.
The horror you face today will become the funny story you tell tomorrow.
In the end, everything is overcome and a life is lived.
My worry is that what you measure yourself with ends up defining you. You pour yourself into the thing that measures you and it defines you. And I just hope that one day you find out that you’re fuller when you measure yourself in love and people and moments, instead of things, adoration and money.
There are more grains of sand in the soles of your shoes than you will be given winters to dream or summers to make those dreams real.
And there are more stars in the sky than there are grains of sand on Earth.
We live in a universe so big that a dying star, in the greater scheme of things, is as significant as spilled milk or an unkissed kiss. In an infinite amount of time, everything that can be forgotten, will be forgotten.
In infinity, spilled milk and dying stars matter the same.
And if you’re just someone brushing your teeth late at night or you’re a planet breathing your last breath as you disappear into a black hole, everything you do matters just the same. Every breath you take is as important or unimportant as the sun in the sky or the moon in the night.
Scratching your ear, is a kind of miracle, depending on how you look at it.
The world would be easier if the homeless were all just lazy and all they needed to do was just get a fucking job.
The world would be easier if evil were a real thing, instead of just confusion, misunderstanding, miscommunication and misplaced desire.
The world would be easier if you could just be happy for what you had, while you had it. If you could eat memories like flowers to keep your heart alive.
The world would be easier if comfort didn’t rest on the backs of the broken, if your swimming pool was dug by soft hands that never worked a day in their life.
The world would be easier if we all just got rich and famous and we were all each other’s #1 fan.
The world would be easier if it were an automatic.
The world would be easier.
But it isn’t.
The world is hard because it requires real human effort to make it turn.
The world is hard because you may wake up today but not tomorrow. And yet no one will accept “fear of death and a futile existence” as a reasonable excuse to miss work.
The world is hard because you will have to fight for the things you love or worse, fight the things you love.
The world is hard because the things you love will kill you.
The world is hard because it was made that way by thousands upon thousands of hard men and no one wants to admit we have no idea why we’re doing the things we’re doing anymore.
The world is hard because it’s hard to forgive and even harder to forget.
The world is hard and you should just give up, right now. Just lay down and die. Nothing will ever be easier.
But, you don’t.
If it hurts you, if not being who you want to be kills you inside, just close your eyes and remember
“Somewhere else, I’m something else.
Somewhere else, I’m something else.”
And soon you will be here.
Soon, you will be you.
This is why it hurts the way it hurts.
You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache.
You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.
You only fix the things you feel deserve to be fixed, as if you’re a special kind of person who doesn’t deserve to sort their own life out because of who they are. Like your brokenness is a symptom of being you.
“I can let that wait, I don’t need to do this because I don’t deserve to have it done. My life is always only ever incomplete.”
And yet, no one deserves the full benefit of being you, more than you.
There’s no beauty in your truth because there’s no truth in your beauty.
And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling “This is important! And this is important! And this is important! You need to worry about this! And this! And this!”
And each day, it’s up to you, to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say “No. This is what’s important.”
The things you struggle with today are things you choose to struggle with.
Because you believe that what you want to accomplish, is worth struggling for.
And I hide because there’s more to me than what you see and I’m not sure you’d like the rest. I know that sometimes, I don’t like the rest.
There is no heart you can have that another heart will not have a problem with.
“But I just want to stop feeling.”
“As far as I can tell, there’s only one way to stop feeling and that’s to die.”
“That seems a bit drastic.”
“It is drastic. Perhaps the most drastic thing there is. There are other ways to kill feelings, like drinking a lot or working hard, constantly, pushing those around you as far away as possible until there’s no way for you to reach out to them but ultimately, the only way to completely stop feeling, forever, is to die.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“Good. You’ll be a better person for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the most interesting, amazing people I’ve ever met, the ones who influenced and shaped the universe itself, are the ones that felt too much but lived through it.”
“That sounds hard.”
“It is. It involves living.”
source: I Wrote This For You