maybe in another lifetime, i’ll finally cross off my bucket list. maybe in that lifetime, i’ll listen to new music without feeling like i’m betraying an old version of myself. maybe i’ll finish all the unfinished series and films that still remember me, and instead of feeling nostalgia clawing at my ribs, i’ll only feel peace. maybe in another lifetime, i’ll write songs without trembling. maybe in that lifetime, i’ll be more than who i am now. less hollow, less afraid. and maybe, if fate allows, i’ll find you. i hope i do. i wish i do.
it doesn’t get better, not the way they say it does. it just softens, like a wound that stopped bleeding but never really closed. going out doesn’t make you forget the ache; it only pauses it. you laugh, you talk, you pretend, and then the silence at home swallows you whole again. even prayer doesn’t fix it, maybe it brings a moment’s calm, but when the church lights dim and the choir fades, the heaviness waits by the door like a shadow that knows your name.
people say i’m lucky. they look at the surface and think i’ve got it all figured out. maybe it’s because i don’t pay rent, or because i don’t pay any bills. maybe because i left my old town behind, or because i’m doing well in school. maybe it’s my driver’s licence, or the way i play sports. maybe it’s how i can turn my thoughts into words and make pain sound beautiful. maybe it’s because they think my family is whole, or that i’m loved the way i deserve.
maybe i am lucky—maybe they’re right. but luck is such a fragile thing when your mind keeps dragging you to darker corners. they don’t see me bargaining with my own reflection. they don’t see the nights where i whisper apologies to no one in particular. they don’t hear the way i pray for a miracle that never comes.
that’s why i try to be generous and kind. maybe if i pour enough light into others, it will reach me too. maybe if i give enough, the ache will loosen its grip. people envy the life i have, but they don’t see the curtain drawn between me and the world—thin, but heavy enough to keep them from knowing the truth.
and the truth is, i am surviving, not living. i am pretending, not healing. and no one really knows. unless they’ve worn my shoes long enough to feel the weight of every step.
“he reminded that God starts with a capital.” pictures of us, beabadoobee.