August began with a rush but ended with a howling wind that blew us astray, and it’s uncanny how we’re all just trying to find our way back home.
There are stories of the storm crawling under our skin because we won’t let our thoughts near them. This disacknowledgement festers in a silence so deep, even the echo of a care no longer reaches. And that is the biggest crime you can let happen to you.
You go on, experiencing the world through the vehicle of this body, and wear and tear is inevitable. But the bigger shock is learning there is intended hurt. A violent chase. Pieces stolen and ripped right off…
But you are more than just this vehicle. I want you to remember that.
When all you can see in passing your reflection is all they took from you, remember there is a part of us—and thank God for it—that exists so deep inside, you couldn’t give it away if you wanted to.
It is the I.
And though we too are guilty of judging books by their covers, we know that’s not where the story came from.
The truth is, we don’t know where stories come from.
Even these words, I don’t how they flow through me, and I don’t know if they’ll flow again. I have made my peace with the uncertainty of art. Which is really just the uncertainty of life.
Embrace that mystery. Milk the moment; you don’t know that you’ll have another.
I know it’s easier said than done. Believe me, I know. Because when they scribble profanities into your narrative, it is difficult to remember you were never the words on these pages but the thought, the idea behind them—and ideas are intangible; they cannot be destroyed by human hands.
I realise that’s not what comes to mind when mind is forgotten, and you feel like limbs and unclean skin dirtied by their intentions, and intentions are so much harder to wash off than stains. I know.
Repetition has always created monsters out of men—hear a scream long enough, and your ears eventually tune into everything louder or softer, but not the cry itself.
But I will not try to understand such monsters. Not today.
Today I just want you to hear that you are not what you were used for. You are not who you were treated as.
You are not the sadistic instrument of a twisted fantasy nor the careless jest.
You are beauty in form, witnessing a cruel world, taking the blows, feeling them too (because you have a heart)—and I believe in you. I believe your kindness far outweighs their cruel intentions.
You will survive.
You will not let the things that happen to you become the story of who you are.
You will write.
You will rewrite the damn rules of this world.
You will be strong for another you, because you understand the pain of surviving it alone.
You will make this place a little more bearable.
And, love, you already have.
There are stories of the storm crawling under our skin because we won’t let our thoughts near them. This disacknowledgement festers in a silence so deep, even the echo of a care no longer reaches. And that is the biggest crime you can let happen to you.
You go on, experiencing the world through the vehicle of this body, and wear and tear is inevitable. But the bigger shock is learning there is intended hurt. A violent chase. Pieces stolen and ripped right off…
But you are more than just this vehicle. I want you to remember that.
When all you can see in passing your reflection is all they took from you, remember there is a part of us—and thank God for it—that exists so deep inside, you couldn’t give it away if you wanted to.
It is the I.
And though we too are guilty of judging books by their covers, we know that’s not where the story came from.
The truth is, we don’t know where stories come from.
Even these words, I don’t how they flow through me, and I don’t know if they’ll flow again. I have made my peace with the uncertainty of art. Which is really just the uncertainty of life.
Embrace that mystery. Milk the moment; you don’t know that you’ll have another.
I know it’s easier said than done. Believe me, I know. Because when they scribble profanities into your narrative, it is difficult to remember you were never the words on these pages but the thought, the idea behind them—and ideas are intangible; they cannot be destroyed by human hands.
I realise that’s not what comes to mind when mind is forgotten, and you feel like limbs and unclean skin dirtied by their intentions, and intentions are so much harder to wash off than stains. I know.
Repetition has always created monsters out of men—hear a scream long enough, and your ears eventually tune into everything louder or softer, but not the cry itself.
But I will not try to understand such monsters. Not today.
Today I just want you to hear that you are not what you were used for. You are not who you were treated as.
You are not the sadistic instrument of a twisted fantasy nor the careless jest.
You are beauty in form, witnessing a cruel world, taking the blows, feeling them too (because you have a heart)—and I believe in you. I believe your kindness far outweighs their cruel intentions.
You will survive.
You will not let the things that happen to you become the story of who you are.
You will write.
You will rewrite the damn rules of this world.
You will be strong for another you, because you understand the pain of surviving it alone.
You will make this place a little more bearable.
And, love, you already have.
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