Be so goddamn unattainable that they think you live on the moon. Better still, be the moon that is too large for their lassos and too far from their reach.
The truth is that it matters little what it may be; wether there is truth or a lie is of small consequence. Who better than yourself to realize that this world will serve you a cold dish or a warm broth? Remember that you will at least always have something in your kitchen and those who eat from your fine china will feast tonight. Those who do not sit at your table shall never truly dine on your delicacies for an appetizer does not a whole meal make.
You will always know what’s true and what’s transient. Your heart will tell you. So choose the memories you make wisely lest you’d like to indulge sadness.
Perhaps I will learn how to be better, tomorrow, than I am today.
Maybe I’ll be a little more honest about where my mind stays.
Truthfully, all that I can hope is to put out the best version out there and in my convictions, never sway.
I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.
It’s doubtful that they ever knew how inside of you trickled a tiny stream of phrases promising without delivery an action that never arrived. It’s dubious that they ever imagined that the tiny rivulet would become secret floodwaters within you that one day would drown out all ideas pertaining to them as the surge broke down the wooden posts only half-blocking their phrases from the machines within your head that processed the wood into truth. Little did they all know that within you were compartmentalizations of them that became a burden too heavy to hear by the cabinets inside of you that held their weight. Shocked will they be when the contents fall to the floor and the flood eroded the wooden structure of the homes they built within you with your permission. Fortunate will you be when all that is broken is washed away leaving you with a clean slate to build your own walls.
At times the entire truth is simply a formality, a brief statement that places everything into perspective. Oftentimes it the omissions that challenge our perception of reality, like: yes it used to be so and I haven’t gotten around to it no longer being the case. So my best guess is that no one ends up the winner and we’ve all bet on a lie no matter how tiny it may be. So our investments fail because we were not genuine, not clear. Then we whine of our misfortunes and ignore our misdeeds: but I tried so hard, I wanted it to be so, I made you feel this way from the bottom of my soul. Turns out that words are cheap when they’re untrue, a small cost to pay as we purchase unhappiness.