It's probably nothing, but it could be everything

[mperrismith]

[mperrismith]

[purplebuddhaquotes]

“She’s not classically beautiful, but somehow that only makes her more interesting.”

—

Jodi Picoult

[mperrismith]

You're brighter when you've known someone intimately, and I've known so many that I must be infinite.

Thankful that people go blind at the sight of me.

[mperrismith]

Why did he ever love me?

And I asked him why last night, and he said because I’m amazing, because I’m smart and have a unique way of looking at the world, and I read that and burst into tears because it was beautiful and heartbreaking and what if no one ever looks at me like that again?

Everyone has that thought, I know, everyone must, after someone loves you that much and for that long, how could anyone ever match that, and I’m not so special that I could get that more than once. Doubt and fear and youth, Rishav was everything for two years, and when you’re so young, two years feel like forever. Strange how time works like that.

He saved me, and I don’t think I can ever repay him for that.

He would argue that I owe him nothing, that’s not how relationships work, and all we are is friends now, and I would give anything to hug him again, one last time, and writing his name feels so much easier than writing Lehi’s. Rishav is permanence, he was forever preserved in a moment, he was years and lifetimes, and I’m wont to believe that we were meant for a different time, that our forever is waiting sometime somewhere else. Ages from now or ago, we’ll see, we’ll see.

We are each everything and nothing, probably nothing, but I force myself to believe the former. How else would I survive?

My tongue is bitter from sipping coffee, and I only ordered it so I could sit here and write, and I’m still convinced the place I’ll fall in love again is in a coffee shop.

I don’t even like coffee.

And I’m alway trying to find reasons as to why Lehi didn’t love me, and it’s fairly obvious. Because it’s unrealistic, it would only hurt us in the long run, you can’t date someone you’ve never met, and what he did was shit, but reasonable shit at least. Maybe he did love me, loved me for the same reasons, but it hurt him, and I always said he would break my heart.

He’s the one who likes coffee and maybe that’s why I’m sitting here.

Fantasy and daydreams, and I always wanted to write fiction. Loving Lehi was the closest I got to that.

To love or to be loved, I know how to do both. Rishav taught me that. Lehi reminded me.

[mperrismith]

11-21

I am 11. I play piano. I write songs. The world turns.

I am 12. There’s a shift. I write music. I still sing. But I read. I read novels. I read news. There is life. There is poetry. I don’t know. I am confused.

I am 13. I am impressionable. Reading breeds writing. Writing for days. Writing fever dreams. I write novels. I create music. I share it. I sing loud. They all laugh. I feel embarrassed. Middle school aches. Kids are mean. What am I? I am not. I think so? I’m still confused. You should know.  

I am 14. It’s brand new. I am older. I’m still embarrassed. For different reasons. I am ugly. I’m fucking ugly. Insecurities are poisonous. It starts here. I’m racially ambiguous. I hate ambiguity. I write that. I write everything. Hate hate hate. So much hate. My fingers bleed. Ink stains skin. I am tattooed. My brother screams. He is breaking. I can’t break. I’m not allowed. My parents fight. They are disappointed. They’re always disappointed. I’m not good. I want goodness. High school’s hard. Harder than before.

I am 15. It’s the same.

I am 16. I am sexual. Maybe I’m beautiful. For a second. Just a second. It doesn’t matter. He leaves me. But I’m better. I write religion. God is mysterious. Sexuality is religion. It is romantic. I want peace. I write that. I sit alone. Eat between books. I daydream universes. Draw ceiling stars. Infinities spiral downwards. Is this depression? Maybe it is. My parents think. They say no. End of discussion. I want more. I tell strangers. Sometimes they listen. I meet him. He is Tunisian. Maybe it’s starting. It begins here.

I am 17. It is exciting. College visit season. I will write. I’ll study it. I say so. My parents smile. They don’t laugh. “What about money?” I don’t speak. I just nod. What about money? Doubt like cancer. I write that. Doubt is acid. I’m not good. Not good enough. I am spiraling. Egypt is salvation. I read it. Muslim, Copt, Jew. Authoritarianism births revolution. I am revolution. Tunisia is paradise. He is Wael. Knox College calls. I’m leaving soon.

I am 18. Intensity like wildfire. I lose it. He takes it. I let him. It didn’t hurt. I am confused. I want love. I want sex. I write that. Where is Tunisia? The Middle East. I study that. He doesn’t love. He’ll never love. I give up. I meet someone. I becomes we. Where is Nepal? Diplomacy is language.

I am 19. I give everything. There is change. I travel places. The Indian subcontinent. The United Kingdom. Who am I? I am democracy. I’m in love. Something is shifting. Is it me? Years pass slowly. It feels retrospective. This is forever. I want forever.

I am 20. I climb mountains. Heaven is real. It’s called Nepal. Himalayan peaks breathe. I scale skies. There isn’t sin. God is imperfect. So are we. We fuck slowly. Is that sinful? It is beautiful. I am beautiful. He is perfect. I am working. U.S. politics burn. There are fights. They ask me. “Why he hates?” I don’t know. I can’t answer. I am diplomacy. I keep shifting. He hates me. He loves me. We are beautiful. We are broken.

I am 21. I drink liquor. It’s legal now. He’s still here. Not for long. I can’t think. He was forever. He’s not now. I am alone. There are people. They fuck me. Too fucking fast. I’m not ready. But I’m alone. I people watch. They are beautiful. Isolation is blistering. I am accomplished. Don’t forget that. Three years gone. But I’m leaving. Washington D.C. calls. I’m leaving soon. I write that.

[mperrismith]

There are 16 days left in Autumn

And there’s something beautiful about the way time passes, in feeling the air turn crisp and bitter, like it’s aching for you to be held, too. Does time always act like this, do the seasons always move through our lives like a breeze through the hair, a caress against the cheek, until you look in the mirror and wonder when the wrinkles around your eyes appeared, when did life get so strange and fast and old?

There are 3 hours and 42 minutes left in the day

And it’s been a weird fucking day, there was so much joy and guilt and fear and confusion. Why am I so confused, why am I so confused, and I always think if I repeat myself, things will make more sense, my heart won’t hurt as much, I won’t feel like such a fucking piece of shit.

Have you ever read anything like this?

There are 3 minutes and 13 seconds left in this song, and why do I spend my time counting down, defining things by seasons and changing and movement, why can’t I enjoy right here? Right now? WIth Bill and Jemma on the couch, with eggnog and red wine, with warmth and light and simple things. Maybe a man tried to feel me up on the bus today, maybe I couldn’t choke out a defense out of fear or uncertainty or whatever, but I’m sitting here, and I’m happy and safe and writing to you, whoever you are, and have you ever read anything like this?

Maybe I’m young and inexperienced and optimistic, but I hope you haven’t. I hope you’re stuck on this and reading and feeling so much that you don’t understand how you could ever feel before this, and I write love letters to the word and hope they read them, but if you’re reading this and you feel anything at all, I’ve done all I can do, and I’m happy with that. There’s probably a prettier way to write that, and I’ll figure it out later, but it will do for now.

There are 2 hours and 55 minutes left in the day.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.

And I’m always amazed at how long it takes for me to write a page, and maybe I draw it out because I enjoy it, because every second I spend writing is relief, and I love to see how my writing has changed over time, from one day to the next, from season to season, and I wonder what winter will bring. I’ll enjoy Autumn for now, it’s burning slow, he’s not in it anymore, but at least I still have you. Whoever you are.

There are 2 hours and 6 minutes left in the day.

I’m sleepy.

I think it’s time for bed.