I know that a human heart costs £425,000 on the black market;
but I still give mine out to people for free,
even after they watch it burn and smile as the ashes flutter away
dancing in the wind while I run breathlessly behind, trying to collect the powder so I can offer the ruins to the next person.
Does forgiveness always need to come with a price tag?
I know that Wei Wuxian spent 16 years in an empty void,
his body and soul separated, his mind wandering and his spirit hurting
just because other people decided that he was a pariah.
Though he said “let the self judge the right and the wrongs, let others decide to praise or to blame and let the losses and gains remain uncommented on”, when have people ever shown mercy to outcasts?
I know that fame and recognition are overrated, and yet
I continue to chase remembrance like I’ve seen street dogs
chasing their own tails, without realising how their relentlessness and their stubborn nature only end up in self-inflicted pain.
Looking for myself in the memories of others is pointless, I know.
But who said that it wasn’t worth trying anyway?
I know that the word ‘sonder’ is a realisation
that each passerby is living a life as vivid and complex
as your own, according to the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
Everyone is just a broken mirror of each other, and we’re all
just reflections of one another, no matter how different we are.
So why don’t we treat others the way we’d like to be treated?
I know that everything is a cycle of creation, preservation and destruction, because, whenever something is created, it must always be preserved, even if it’s for the shortest while, and it must eventually be destroyed too, even if it deserved to exist forever.
Sounds pessimistic, you say? Well, I beg to differ.
Isn’t it optimistic to think that everything can enjoy this life?
I know that, hypocritical and awful as we are, every human
also has a bright, undying flame of purity and faith inside them.
And these strings of hope are what ties our torn, battered pieces together like the pages of an ancient book that’s teetering
on the edge of falling apart completely.
What really makes us beautiful, our flawlessness or our flaws?
I know that vanilla is the most versatile, and therefore,
the best ice cream flavour.
You can shake your head and go on about your cookies and cream or your mint chocolate chip or your nutty butterscotch or your bubblegum,
but this is not up for debate.
Don’t the things that offer us simplicity also offer us comfort?
I know that the Tumblr post I saw on (yet another) marshmallow-fueled, sleep deprived Pinterest spree was right.
Telling people that they’re your sun isn’t as much of a compliment
as people make it out to be, because, when it’s here, all we do is complain and chide and squint through our fingers while we hate.
Then again, authenticity has never really been our concern, has it?
I know that people who are comfortable laughing at themselves
are my favourite kind.
I like how their eyes glitter with humour,
and their teeth shine with joy while they recount their ordeals and accept themselves to be just that, themselves. All strings attached.
How can something so honest ever be considered ugly?
I know for sure that there’s a lot of things out there
that I still don’t know, and that I’m not sure I want to.
And I think that it’s okay for me to make mistakes and have flaws, because that’s how I’m gonna learn to live.
Our souls are always littered with bumps and bruises and scratches and scores, but it’s our pain that makes us cherish our ability to feel.
And if that’s not humanity, then what is?