Rise

My dream is to write an anthem to my youth. In it, I’ll glorify our messes; I’ll sing to the kids who dream; I’ll write it all for the generation who was taught to falter, but didn’t.

For so long we’ve been repeatedly told that we cannot be anything beyond our simple boundaries, and we’ve lived sort of religiously with the idea that we are not made for greatness, and that we cannot be it. And, frankly, it’s pretty exhausting. To continually hear that we are lazy and selfish, when—if we tried—we could be unstoppable. We could—We are made of cosmos; we might envelope into ourselves, when we are not ourselves, but when we are ourselves, we are the sun.

We need to stop teaching these kids—us—our generation—that conformity is the only way to success; That the media is our only means to understanding our entirety; That in order to be wonderful, we must fit into a mold that we cannot fit into, and I’ve said this a hundred thousand times already.

So shut up, and rise.  

Strictly Human.

They hate me because I have never been ashamed of the sins that I have made. If I ever decide to be ashamed of them, then on that day, I lose my humanity. But because I am Human— and strictly human— I choose to carry my flaws on my hands and on my face. Here I am. With all my scars and my mistakes. Take what you want, and hate what you resent, but spare me the judgements: You are just as human as I am; Just as disgustingly humane, and beautifully faulted.

This is to My Youth.

To the Fallen, the Tragedies and the Misfits:

You were born to be everything more,

And nothing less

Than a carefully crafted

Wonderful mess.

You are a part of the Youth,

Who is dead and alive,

Intelligent and misunderstood,

Vibrant and dull,

Quiet and loud;

A paradox, within a paradox.

You are important.

You are unimportant.

You are significant.

You are insignificant.

You are whatever you choose to be.

The mold that was crafted for you,

Is not your mold at all.

You are a part of the Youth.

And we are reckless,

And we are insane.

We are hurricanes,

And many other storms.

But we are not—

We never will be

Clear blue skies.

And goddammit,

We’re proud.

Always.

Mirrors.

There are only three things that can turn man into dust: The power of God, the inability to properly understand freedom, and the realization of the fact that what had been dead, had always been alive.

This had begun some time ago when I had looked in the mirror, and I’d seen the series of lies that I had been carefully fashioning around my bloodied flesh. I spoke of Satan, and I’d said I had killed it, when I had merely paid no heed to it. Then It was a couple of days ago, when I had realized that I am more than just a bundle of faults. I am a Fault, always less and never more. Because I have collected everything that had scarred me and buried it in my soil, then I let its roots grow until I could feel them. And it wasn’t until I had felt them that I had realized how idiotic I was. How idiotic I had been.

It was when I looked in the mirror and I saw, how I had never looked myself square in the eye; that the sensation had all seemed so foreign; that I was still a seed among roses; that I was never what I had announced myself to be; that my smile had always been fleeting—that I had never smiled to mirrors

And it was when I looked in the mirror that I had realized, how I had despised my skin, and how I wished to tear my core and yell at it—scream at it for being so menacing, so cruel and silly and gullible. But who am I to put the blame on what I had made? Who is a man, who blames a storm that he had built?

I am writing this down because I am with the Frauds and the Insecure, and even though we do not deserve to be heard, I am writing this down because it simply must be written down.

Empty/Full

I sit in a room where silence is kept. The windows sealed, the fire dead. I sit in room filled with so many people, and no people at all. Here you hear the laughter of a woman swept away by the charms of some talented liar; You hear the whispers and the music. All together forming this sort of… sound. And it’s not loud, but it’s not quiet either. If you don’t listen with precision, you hear the sound of the ocean. A collection of a thousand voices that together form a different language entirely-- How could you put a sound into terms? I guess it’s only by experience that you can hear the sound of a thousand people: The Language of Conversation, you could call it. And it’s so strange, so beyond strange. The feeling of a thousand voices all speaking at the same time, forming one common voice…

And they’re all in this room of mine.

You smell the wandering scent of heavy alcohol mixed with the despair of the rich wandering through and the drying and aggressive smoke of their cigars, and a sort of underlying—literal and metaphorical—coldness. You see the golden ceiling that could reach the stars, as it bent in its center, forming a cupola. And in its middle came dangling a star of our own—A chandelier with so many diamonds, that you can’t quiet tell if their all very large diamonds, that entwine to form a bright orb, or if they are a collection of smaller diamonds that accumulate to form this spectacular orb. Either ways, once you look up, you can’t possibly look back down. You wouldn’t want to, anyway.

And there were so many things, so many incredible things in this loud and lively and dead and silent room, that I’ll never be able to list—and as I look I see that I’ve built an empty kingdom filled with too little many-s. But all I want is that sense. All I want is that sense of honest laughter; the sense of honest jokes, and people who look at you, and with the simplicity in their look—and all it takes is a look—you sense that you could mean so much.  So, yes, if I could trade my chandeliers for a wildfire, I would. I would trade my empty kingdom for a cottage brimful with beautiful stupidity. And only then will I be able to look up at the sky and look at it.

Only then will I be like them, the ones who laugh and laugh and joke and laugh even more, with all the little care in the world, because what they have in their grasp is a power so great, so beautiful, so humongous, so degraded, that not even the shiniest of chandeliers can fathom.

--

You are worth it. You're worth every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year and eternity. You're worth all , the the pain and all the fights and all the days when you felt your highest, and all the days when you just didn't. You're worth it all. And yes, just like the stars and the galaxies and the sun and the moon and the mountains and the trees, you deserve to be right here. Right on this very spot. You deserve to feel excellent and happy. You deserve to look at the mirror right there, and call yourself beautiful, because goddammit you are. You're loved and you're wonderful. Maybe not by everyone, and maybe you have a bundle of flaws, but it's okay. It's okay because there's someone out there who loves them, and if you haven't yet noticed, you're human. 

We were born to be everything wrong in a very right way. 

He and She.

NOTETHING:

Love stuff makes me feel weird. But I like love stuff. Cheesy love stuff, to be specific. And I wrote this a while back, and had completely forgotten about it. It's a short simple thing, so.. yeah.

I hope you like my cheese fest, I guess.

He was baffled by how so much beauty found no beauty all. He had fallen in love with Love itself, and he had expected it to love itself. He instead had fallen in love with Love that fell victim to hatred. So in turn, he was a victim her labyrinth, and he hated to love it, but he couldn’t help it.  

She was baffled by how a man as potent as him, as strong as him, as wonderful as him, could have ever found such little littleness in her pathetic little. He held the entire world on his shoulders, and he smiled as if the weight of the world were only his wings. He laughed as if he could, and he can. And he knew it, but he was never the type to flaunt it. He brought her so much that she didn’t deserve. He was beyond her words; Beyond her littler words; Beyond her might; Beyond her. But he was all she ever needed. And who would’ve known how mesmerizing a single smile was? She could have almost felt herself floating in that crooked smile. How the world lifted, and she was invincible.

He knew he didn’t deserve her. She had deserved so much more, and so much grander. He knew he wasn’t quiet enough for her, and the only Enough that he could have possibly give her was a Heaven that wasn’t in his grasp. But he had fallen too deeply.

So he went down on his knee, and he did the impossible—the imposter!

He went down his knee, and he held her hand, and he asked her for her world.

And so they said: I do.