maybe when i told you that my first conscious memory was seeing my mother cry, and that my first conscious thought was that it must have been my fault. because i had been born, trapping her in a country where she couldn’t read or speak the language. maybe there was a part of me that was trying to tell you that the child inside of me will always be melancholic and lonely and falsely responsible for everything.
i used to write so much before i met you. and a couple years after meeting you, while my love was still pessimistic and romantic in pain. what happened, i wonder. sometimes i think i’m an artistic stereotype that thrives on depression. i’m afraid that sad child inside of me wants to hurt again to feel the cathartic ache of art. i’m afraid that if i wake up smiling to your face everyday as the sunbeams run gentle lines across your skin, i’m afraid the child will feel forgotten and i’ll never write again.
but more than that, i’m afraid i don’t care. that if i was faced with the option again, to love you or to create, i would choose you. i would choose you over and over and over.
