You’ve been on my mind a lot recently, though I haven’t the slightest idea why.
Maybe it’s the books I’ve been reading or the music I’ve been listening to.
Either way, I keep finding myself daydreaming about all of your possibilities.
You’ve been on my mind a lot recently, and each time you are, you transcend the boundaries of mortal existence.
Honestly, I’m not quite sure if I even truly believe in you, but I don’t want to waste my time deciding when I’ll never know in this life anyway.
You’ve been on my mind a lot recently, and I’ve begun to indulge in the idea of you.
I’ve been growing into a newfound adoration of life in the past few weeks, and yet my mind is plagued by your incessant options.
I truly love being alive, being human; I’m nowhere near done with it yet. But the days are long and endless, and the years are passing much too rapidly, and the weight of my mortality forms a constant ache in the space between my ribs.
I hope that you are more than all of this. Despite my unyielding worship of living and my inexplicable inability to come to terms with my fate, I hope that when I reach you, I am more.
You’ve been on my mind a lot recently, and each time you are, you transcend the boundaries of mortal existence. I hope, if I do meet you someday, I will as well.
I’d like to be something soft in my future lives, something warm and bright and welcoming.
I’d like to be something not consciously thought of often but seen by all and unforgettable at the end of the world.
I’d like to be the parts of the world noticed by the poets, the artists, the writers. I’d like to exist to all but only be seen by those who create the beauty I long to possess.
Millions of years from now, I’d like to be the reflection of light dotting a pond at a park somewhere in modern-day Greece, visited by a mother and daughter on a Sunday afternoon.
Thousands of generations from today, I hope I exist as the smear of red on an abstract canvas, the floorboards of someone’s best friend’s patio in the golden hours of summer, the drops of lemonade latched on to someone’s skin.
When I’ve spent too much time agonizing over the somehow both exorbitant and insufficient rest of my life, I want nothing more than to be a fresh coat of perfect nail polish or the smell of a field of flowers, of tranquility and pastel life.
The color of forget-me-nots, the smell of strawberry smoothies, the gorgeous dawn light in the first, optimistic mornings of summer.
I hope that in some future form of my soul, I am something lovely and indelible.
