Somedays, my fingers remember tracing the contours of your cheeks. Your lips. Your arms. They remember racing through your hair and my lips… Oh, my lips, remember being caught in yours.
Somedays, I awake breathless with pain, gasping with bitter longing for something past. Something passed.
I remember, and it’s the remembering that hurts most.
I wish someone would’ve told me early on that making mistakes, won’t shape who you are.
That these mistakes don’t leave you more adept at adapting to a situation.
It leaves you hopeless and heartbroken and afraid of taking risks.
Worse… It leaves you hopeless and heartbroken and holding on despite knowing how things will end up.
I wish someone could’ve told me that everything works out the way it always works out. That mistakes aren’t a one-time deal. That the mistakes we make, are constantly repeated. Different people. Different situations. Same outcomes.
Somedays, I wake up to this thumping in my chest and rejoice in the fact that I still feel. But somedays, I wake up and this ache, this feeling doesn’t go away. It abates for a while, and comes back. Stronger than ever, so that I find myself lying in bed, gasping for air as tears pour fourth. Tears that sound like pained cries because there’s this hole burning through me. A hole I can never quite fill.
I wish I’d realized all this bleakness earlier on, so that I could have wasted more time on being happy. On trying to be happy. On convincing myself that I am happy. I wish I could’ve stopped worrying so much about what others thought of me, or how others felt. I wish someone would have told me that somedays, you’re going to be incredibly sad, and you’re going to feel incredibly hopeless, but that it’s OK.
Because the leading cause of death, is life.
Somedays, my fingers rush past each other in desperate attempts at finding some elusive truth.
Somedays, I grasp them quickly enough, that they never escape.
I wait. And I cry. And I laugh. And I live. And I die.
And I realize that life is one long illness. And everyone loses.