Life only becomes bearable when I hear waves crashing onto sand, and even that isn’t a choice I have access to on hand. I think I will always have contempt for it isn’t me that the world grants ease to.
I was born into loneliness and I embraced that fate with open arms, then I was told that it wasn’t enough, and at the end I chose to listen. But I gave my heart and now I’m screwed, and I’m afraid the sadness will last forever.
The prayers, the songs, the words of strength, they don’t give me peace like they used to — I’m afraid the world has done its job all too well.
But if there was ever a last plea that could ever be heard, let it be this: if the world insists on making me older than my age, let me choose my way of preserving youth, and let it be love.
Let me be stupidly and wholeheartedly in love with the people that make my feel like the world isn’t so much of a hopeless place, and let me live freely in that space.
If nothing else, let me devour that.
