In another life, I was a poet.
Of all the stupid oddities I’ve pondered and the questions I’ve screamed into the abyss, this is the only certainty. More certain than the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, more certain than time’s demise, and more certain than my own habits.
A happy, simplistic truth that haunts my every movement. The whisper in my ear, the murmur under my breath, the chill under my skin.
And, ironically, I will never be able to express how desperately I wish it were this one.
It almost was. I never knew it, but the journals I filled in my youth had their purpose, which has gradually become mine.
Yes, they contained doodles, math, and every other intangible theory I had as well. Even with my passion in my grasp, I dream of the wasted potential I will always hold with me. No, I was not gifted at any of those dreams, but every path I swerved away from had potential waiting at the end. I lack the patience.
I want odes upon odes to nature to flow from my vessel, and I want sonnets that grant solace.
The materialistic joys I would give away without even a thought to spend my days perusing libraries for my next spark of inspiration.
I want odes upon odes of nature to flow from my vessel, and I want sonnets that grant solace. I ask for too much.
In this life, I am a lover.
Of people and places and things. Of the poetry that I cannot write and the books I will never read. Of the dreams I had and the reality that shatters them.
Of the way the sunlight illuminates my curtains and of the way it was 70 degrees outside today.
Someday, I’ll look at the sky with pride instead of shock. I’ll look up, and I’ll know that the sky’s blue embrace has been waiting for me this whole time.
Surely, I could be a poet in this life. Maybe if I was just a little more insane or if my environment was just a little worse. Maybe if I wasn’t so in love with people and places and things that my hands start shaking when I even think about putting them into my words. There’s something wrong with my words; they never seem to sit quite right.
Even this is fragmented. I hate every single word I type so deeply, but I’m going to suffer through it. I’ll spew out concepts about growth not being linear and having a bad day, but truly, I’ll always know I can do better.
So, I’m not what I could be in this life.
Maybe in the next one.
