You don’t have to write a novel, fill a gallery with art or direct a play to tell your story. Find a way that works. Find a way to tell your tragedy. To inspire the ones on the same path. Your story is the cuts beneath your skin. The bags beneath your eyes. The dirt beneath your nails. Not everyone can see and not everyone will understand but, the ones that do need you to use the dirt on your hands to help them build their own castle in the sand.
Your family may fight but it shows that they’re there. Your job may be boring but it means you still have one. Your skin may be flawed but it means that you’ve grown. Your mistakes may be bad but it means that you’re human. Your smile may be temporary but it means there’s still hope. Your life may be hard but it means that you’re living and the fact that you’re living; means you’ve done something right.
You wait for someone to come into your life and tell you you’re perfect. Tell you they can’t live without you; you’re always on their mind. But when those feelings are foreign and you hear them with a meaningless ring, you panic.
You can’t believe someone’s pushing your hair back to better look into your eyes. You can’t believe they’re holding your hand, despite your nail biting habit and horribly dry skin. You can’t believe they sacrificed their Saturday night to find the shiny pieces of your shattered self. You can’t believe it, so you don’t. You run from the possibility that this time could be different.
A house isn’t a home without the people beneath the roof. A vacation isn’t worth the trip without the culture you embrace. A friendship isn’t more then company until you learn to let them in and a relationship is only lust until you find someone to love. A job is simply work until you’re doing something worthwhile and your life is simply existence until you truly start to live.
Don’t give up too soon, for life has more to offer. The people will change and situations will happen. There are things beyond your control. There are things not worth the pain. Find your outlook, find what’s right, and you will never search for happiness again.
I wish I could blame you for the mess I’ve become. I would blame you for the times I laid on my cold, wooden floors. Curled in a ball with crippling thoughts. I would blame you for the nine a.m’s you made me miss, the days in bed you made me have. For the hours spent wishing I was someone else.
I would blame you for the times I believed your lies. The times you pulled me close and kissed my forehead, promising a future in us. For showing me a sadness I didn’t know possible. A sadness I didn’t know how to survive.
I would blame you because I could forgive you before I ever forgave myself.
I wasn’t ready to love you when I met you. There wasn’t anything you could’ve said, or anything you could’ve done. You gave me time to decide, time to open my arms but I didn’t, because I couldn’t. Our love was lost, our chance was missed. If timing is everything, then time worked against us, and too often I look at the door and hope you’ll walk in, so we can meet again.