Year after year, I cycle through feelings of complacency and exhaustion; a feeling that I can’t keep up with the dream I have set out in front of me. Committing to this or that, running to and fro, loving too hard that it hurts, burning so bright that it scars, but dying so quickly is my mode of operation. Am I not more than this? Am I not just the collection of my choices, my errors, my loves and losses?
Silly questions thrown into the air so that they don’t stay dormant in my head for too long. Surely, they may come back home, but by then I will have busied myself again with tales or work or fleeting desires and won’t have time to respond to them until a later moment of reflection.
I have learned to just rid myself of unanswerable questions. I have learned to just walk blindly, paying no mind to the risk of pain. The one I love is a ghost at my side and she comes along with me. The dream I have is a distanced portrait hung on a wall that retreats into the haze. These things I would do anything for, the girl and the dream. They deserve my DNA, they deserve my devotion. Perhaps, one could say they are the ingredients to my yearly cycle of disorientation; that they are why my bones grow weaker each day, but my head inflates with more visions of beauty.
I don’t mind. I love the girl. I love the dream. All of the things that tell me otherwise I rid of it.
I ask you, what is it that you must rid of?