There's a part of the pain that never leaves, that slowly dies in your heartbeat and becomes a part of you. Things that never leave, you learn to embrace it.
I guess that's how some poems are born, not out of the necessity to write something, but out of that strange feeling that you can't get rid of. Sometimes they find their way to a blank paper, and sometimes they find a humble abode inside a stranger's heart.
"I want to be a little sad even when I'm happy", you said, "It's okay to be a little sad even when the whole world tells you to be happy. This little sadness I carry is part of who I am, and I'm not sure what would I do without it. I feel like I'll no longer be me if it ever happens".
This pursuit of happiness is a strange thing, isn't it?
We only talk once or twice every few months now. I don't think I miss you that much, perhaps it's just the little sacrifices that we all have to make when we're running after things. It gets heavier and harder if we try to carry too much, so we end up leaving things behind in a hope that we'll find them again somehow.
Life's a bit mundane, not the kinda one where you want to kill yourself. The kinda mundanity that you know you have to survive for the bigger picture. It's hard to explain, I think. But you always had a way with words, from questioning my ideologies to talking about paradoxes at two in the morning.
We are made of dead things but collectively become alive and conscious for some reason. People like us can't ever shake off this search for meaning, to understand how and why we've got here. Even when we end up debating about existentialism and nihilism, we never arrived at an absolute conclusion on which one is the best suited for our society. It's impossible, you said, to have one ideology that can help us to have a better future, the one that can describe a million human emotions in a few lines and definitions.
We have a thousand choices to numb the pain, but we all look for a home in people. We yearn for a human touch to feel alive. Someone to dig deeper through the metaphors to find you buried deeper underneath it. Someone to crush all the walls that you've built around your heart. Someone to write eulogies when you die on a fine autumn eve. Someone to write poems about you when the world falls asleep. Someone to look up at the sky and ponder, of all the randomness and the chaos the universe brings, how you ended up the reason for their smile.
I love the slight melancholy that you bring with every smile, now, I feel it too. The way rain touches your face, the way the wilderness sends shivers down your spine, the way you watch the sun slowly sink into the horizon, the way a good poem makes you feel, you are made of all these intricate details beyond comprehension. Now, I feel it too.
With empty hands and Half full hearts You ask me How is it that I always seem to Know where you are I tell you that I Don't need to follow You in cars, I know The havens you seek Out when it's night And wait in those Rooms whose doors You would inevitably Knock upon at Fifteen minutes to midnight.
You watch this life Pass you by, with half opened Hopes and colder skins Rain streaming down Windows and your thoughts Buried under your sins I catch the last Remnants of time And pour them In a cracked jar And we sit down Facing dust coated walls Watching them fight An invisible war.