I love me. As self observed as that sounds, I do. I love the way I think to myself and the way I learn and my willing to learn. I love the way I say I’m an extrovert but I’m really introverted. I love the way that I know that no one will ever get to understand what goes Inside our minds,truly and fully, and I enjoy the eerie mysterious feeling it brings. The only part where I’m not allowed to be in control is what brings me peace and I love that recognition. I love the phases I have gone through and weep that I will never be the same. Evolving from and longing the version of me I wished so much to destroy. even then I still loved me implicitly,but I was immersed in my own indignation and compliant with norms that made me seem uncanny and utterly lacking social awareness.I love how that’s not the case.
In fact, It made me impregnable to the standards that are useless and absurd. I hate to ruminate and inculcate but this is me being amorous and shameful. So am I ashamed to love? Am I ashamed of me? Do I love All my shadows and hidden secrets? The consolation of my own being I raze because I dogmatically think that people will love me the same way I love. It’s a travesty really, that I could think that people are even deft to love me. I keep that stored in a disk, paused, and lost in a ram that only remembers to play apathetic sounds when I sing. Moments of disdain cause nominal resplendent pain, and pain is beautiful. I am beautiful and I love me. I hope this is not atypical, but I would be lying if I said i did. Actually, I want this to stand out and be loud and modulate to those who are philistine. To abort the disheartened myopic state of mind. Don’t abnegate and become stolid, be brave in the face of love. -BMK










