There is so much between us, so much we don’t know. Our feelings, thoughts, actions… all seem wildly foreign. Experiences change us.. for better or worse, self destruction is our reality. I’ve shared poetry before.. poetry about gaelic love that transcends space, time, and circumstance to find understanding, acceptance, and freedom.. poetry about angelic beauty so magnificent it terrifies us, utterly overwhelming our sense of being.. poetry about hope so defiant that it alone, when everything we are is taken, wills us to live.. poetry about how even the most eloquent, articulate words completely fail to capture, to communicate the magnitude, the grand awe that we are..
Yet all I can find are words. My futile words. I borrow them from books long since forgotten, steal them from strangers handily discarded, even invent them into existence, twisting the very language to my fancy. Yet, despite my beguiling, I can’t figure it. It won’t work. The gap I find between my soul and everything else, everyone else.. persists. It hurts. I always hurt.
So I accept my lot of suffering. I stand in view of an relentless life of failure, seeing the pain of every pitfall and mistake, realizing I have no other way. I resolve to suffer it well. I will attempt to lessen that infernal, infinite gap.
I’m not sure what it means.. I’ve purposed myself to something that can't be done. I have chosen a reality of nihilism and tried to build in it belief. I am undone by my own doing. Am I to share such a thing? Should anyone suffer my catastrophe?
I ask questions that don’t have answers. I pick and poke at others, cajoling them to suffer with me, to embrace my wanton world. It is some sort of crime. I am buried beneath my wrong-doings.
For all of this, you have my deepest and most sincere apologies.
I love you.