carpe diem

I carry a devastating, unfathomable, inexpressible, and persistent sense of melancholy.

Read me in full and you still won’t see who I am.

Writing is setting free what lies deepest within you.

You survive because it’s the only thing you know how to do.

How many times have I been a shelter for others and an empty house for myself…

Silence is vast, like an endless ocean of reliefs.

If you didn’t exist, I would invent you. If you were distant, I would write to you. If you were a pose, I would paint you. And if you were a stormy night, I would never hide from you. If it were rays of sunlight, I would always reveal myself to you. And if you were the ocean, I would lose myself in you. And if it were a shore, I would be every grain with you. If you were the sky so blue, I would dwell in the clouds with you. If it were a poem, Every night I would recite you. If you were a song, I would never silence you. And if you were love, I would never reject you. If you knocked on my door, I wouldn’t hesitate for you. And if you were never you, I would never be me. And if you didn’t exist, I’d beg God to let you be.

When I die, lay me where I can watch the stars, where I can feel the breeze brush my face. Play my favorite song. Tell me all our conversations, let me remember the laughter and the light. Then read a poem — like this one, or any verse you think I’d cherish. Bring me the brightest flowers, so I may breathe in their sweet perfume. Tell me how my simple existence made the world gentler, and tell me once more why my presence mattered at all. Say how deeply you miss me — and that you’ll never forget. And then, when I live again… Lay me beneath the ground, cold and dim, where the wind won’t dare to linger, the breeze even less. Music will fall silent. Say nothing but grumbles and weary whispers. Tear apart my final wishes. Bring the flowers you know will wilt too soon — their scent, no longer sweet, will taste of grief. My existence won’t deserve farewells or final words; no condolences, no hollow claims, nothing left to be left. Tell me that, before long, everyone will forget. And that is why… (Read the beginning again.)

Does my intensity frighten you? Because your superficiality feels so empty to me.