The Far Fetcher

To someone who refuses to hear this: I know that when you're in the thick of things, this can be beyond comprehension; difficult to remember or understand or accept. But. Romanticise the light; not the dark. Even the pain of yearning for hope is better than whatever sense of satisfaction or control you can derive from contenting yourself with hopelessness. Because romanticising hopelessness is something of a drug - the kind that blinds and numbs, but doesn't actually cure. And you are always going to need more and more of it in order to reach some level of unfeeling. Of escapism. It is a path of diminishing returns because all it does is anaesthetise while your mind and body - your truest home - goes to rot. I think it fairly natural to want to look at your current state - especially if you feel that this is all you will have, all you will ever be - and try and find beauty and value in it. It makes sense that you'd gravitate towards this as a way to cope. To endure. You paint pictures - both literally and with words - and make the dark seem so beautiful. You make it seem inviting. But it's not. You are. And I know there is a part of you desperate to stay shadowed, because you think it is the only sublime thing about you. That this dark is blessing as much as it is pain. That it is Muse and Goddess and Mana; your only skill is in worshipping it. It isn't. There is no beauty inherent in the dark. It is nothing. The shadows that give it depth and intrigue are only cast because of your light. It is nothing without you. And you are everything even without it. It is not a fool's errand to hope. It is not a childish thing. Even the hope to one day have hope, is better than making yourself content with this rot and squalor. And you lie every time you say there is beauty in it. There isn't. There is only you, and the work of your hands and your mind. Shaping and crafting and honing hideous things into beautiful shapes. And yet you have the temerity to say that you bring nothing to the world. That there is nothing lovely about you. You are loveliness, entire. You are a thing sublime. And as much as the work you create, you are an artwork in yourself. One hewed by your own hands and there is no way you could ever be anything but exquisite. You are the light that creates beauty. And you are the mind that gives meaning. You are worthy of poetry. And excuse me, my audacities. I know it is not my place. And this won't reach you, I know. You don't want to understand. I know that too. But I don't know any better either. (Loving you has taught me nothing else). - An excerpt from 'An Untitled Work', by thefarfetcher.