I’m tired of loss.
Not tired in a way that can be mended with sleep, no.
Mentally exhausted in a way that doesn’t seem just. It’s not just.
I miss my dad. Actually, no. I miss the thought of having a dad, or a normal life, a normal family. Every day I ache because of a past I had no control over. I was only a kid. Why did this happen to a kid?
I miss my friends. The dead ones, the far-away ones, the dead ones that are still living and breathing. I miss what it’s like to be cared for. I miss laughing and playing and causing trouble just because.
It seems like the only friend I have is writing. She’s the only thing that keeps me safe, sane. She lets me be who I am without judgement. She is what keeps me strong.
I’m sick of being strong, you know? I’m repulsed by the hand that life has given me. I am thankful for the opportunities but sickened by doom and gloom that has followed me since my childhood.
When tragedy strikes, being strong is the only option. It is what keeps us going in the dark. We are the light, begging to be shone. What happens when the light fades out? Who will carry us out of the dark?
Nothing about this makes sense. I can’t seem to put the pieces together, because the ends were sawn off and nothing fits right.
I want things to be clean-cut, I want things to make sense.
Most of all, I want to see hope in a time of darkness. I want to pick myself up out of the rubble and dust myself off. I want to scream into me, “It’s not supposed to make sense. Life isn’t meant to be lived with certainty, only spontaneity.”
One day, when it’s my turn to follow suit, I will understand. It may not make sense, the puzzle pieces may not be perfect for one another, but everything will be okay. We will be happy with the outcome, because we tried. We fucking tried.
And that’s beautiful.