“I am here to present the dream that stemmed from a nightmare. This isn’t one of those horror movie marathons at all. It’s much, much worse.” — from earlier today
It wasn’t easy getting up on the platform and admitting to thirty people today about the way I write. It wasn’t easy for me to tell them how I could feel so much for just one person, and have my mind wrapped around you. It wasn’t easy for me to admit that the thing I knew best was to write about moments where it was only me, never with you. It wasn’t easy for me to admit that the dreams I knew held so much more smoke and fog than breeze and sunlight. It wasn’t easy for me to admit that I am currently trapped in a nightmare, and that was what I knew best. I could never have anything easy.
And with shaking hands, I told the story of how I always left every requited relationship story unfinished, stories of how I could never be at par with authors who wrote about wizards or sweet narratives. With the coldness that matched ice, I told the story of how I wrote you those words, that those words are no longer mine but yours. Yet despite that, those words disappear into dust at the end of the day, because what good would they be if they weren’t said out loud?
Now I admit that I wish you could hear them for yourself, that I’d read them to you, and you’d sit there smiling, because that would have been the dream I’d want to have with eyes wide open. It’s not because I can pull heaven and earth for you, or have the world’s colors glow brighter because you were there, but because you deserved to hear them from someone who thought you were worth something—that despite the disbelief others may have, I could have been the difference. But to have the difference, you have to subtract from something greater, and I’m not sure where you can find that.
I know that you can’t give me the world, nor can you promise forever— I’m tired of the metaphors. All I wanted you to know was that you were enough. With a voice barely above a whisper, I admitted that.