You’re a piece of me that I will never have.
I read somewhere that everything we write, we write for someone, directly or indirectly. So, what’s the hype? These “someones” impart something of themselves to people, to us, to the seemingly unnoticeable. I, for one, would think that I have given my all to the people I care most that none is left for me.
I am writing because I feel I have so much to give but none to give to. It seems that all my efforts are stagnant in keeping everyone happy that it ruins the very essence of it. Keeping myself happy, in the long run, isn’t reassuring. It’s like condemning myself of sadness – the inevitable hurt. And without it, we won’t experience true happiness. For every stone-cold sadness there is an equivocal, almost euphoric happiness.
But what the actual fuckity fuck.. too much of this melancholy kills.
I am writing to you, to the wanderers who never stop dreaming, never ceasing to defeat, always fighting. To those who still have strength waking up, doing what life tells us, and dodging its cruel blows. To the bellowing hearts who love unconditionally, though not always reciprocated, still do so.
And to that bit of happiness still left in me, may you flicker with life.
C’est la vie.