Posted by intransitionstill
One of the greatest ironies in the world is that often the seemingly happiest people have some of the darkest bits of their soul.
I hope its okay that I’m writing to you. I don’t know if there are rules about this sort of thing. If men in black suits and hats will pop out of a closet somewhere and tell me to stop attempting time travel. If they will suck my brain or steal my memories or lock me away. But you must understand, I’m just so sick of writing to him that I am left with no choice. Someone told me once that in order to stop being hurt by others, one must realize that all we have is ourselves. The only issue is I’m not quite sure I would like to be friends with who I am right now. But I would like that to change, which explains why I’m writing to you on a cloudy Wednesday morning; before the world stirs and the day begins.
I wanted to write you today to tell you that I sure as hell hope that you found love. I don’t care if it is a beautiful man who would rather do nothing with you than anything with anybody else, or if it is art so beautiful you fall within its world every single day. I don’t care if it is friends you give your life to, or a job that fills you with significance every moment. I don’t care if it is a very affectionate mollusc. Just love it. Give your whole heart to it. Let it change you from the inside, let it shift your dreams and change your expectations, and challenge you. Let it free you, and let it entrap you. Let it intoxicate you. But love something. I need to believe that you do.
Stop giving yourself to lesser intoxications that do not measure up to that love. 10 years ago today you realized that you had not kissed anyone sober in more than a year. Not since him.
Don’t live like that.
They are a terrible thing; drunken kisses. They are a mirage of the lips—they taste like a cool glass of water on the hottest day of summer, and then they disappear like dust before your eyes and spill out on the wreckage below before they ever quench your thirst. And all the searching makes you even thirstier.
I hope you are living as the person you are. I hope you are no longer starving away your wildness; desperately trying to make yourself small— dreaming of taking up less space within the world and within people’s expectations. I hope that you are wildly passionate with a reckless abandon. I hope you fill every ounce of space you inhabit. But most importantly I hope that you have a passion that builds and not destroys.
10 years ago, you finally got sick of getting drunk. You realized that each trivial intoxication was merely an attempt to dull the withdrawal of an intoxication run out. That is not real passion.
Please don’t live like that.
10 years ago, you were sitting in a musty pottery room. You stared down at a lump of clay spinning before you, wondering what it might take to make something beautiful. To become something beautiful. What it might take to scrape away the scaring on a heart so big it broke itself. What it might take to love again. To find passion again.
Dear myself in 10 years: I hope you found out.