A Letter
The last time I opened my little box of trinkets to show you, you didn't even glance this way.
I had to close it hastily and shove it back under the bed,
A little embarrassed that I opened it up for you.
You don't want to see mine, and yet you show me yours.
I want to dismiss you too, but I can't help that I understand you.
I see your feelings in your eyes, so raw, and I know I must not hurt you.
So I decide to hide my own monstrosity
And let you believe that we aren't literally the same,
You and I.
You don't want to listen to me, you continue denying what I show you of myself.
Why don't you want to know who I am?
You keep your image of me in your eyes, unchanging.
Oh wait, did I just accuse you of something
That I am guilty of too? Interesting.
Oh, the things I wish I could explain, but I can't
Because ultimately, who cares?
Who cares of what could have been?
Who cares of the reasoning behind your actions?
Do you feel my absence,
Do you miss it?
Did you ever even value it,
Was I anything to you at all?
Oh I knew,
I knew the pains of getting into it right from the beginning.
But I wonder now,
Am I really that insignificant to you?
I spiral in and out of distress,
A constant pattern.
I wrench my heart and take my sorrows with me
By the lakeside, contemplating,
Pledging to leave it all behind and start afresh.
But why is it, that the moment I see you again,
I realize that I still don't hate you?
I can't bring myself to, even if I tried to.
Oh, my heart, if only you knew,
I'd forgive you a thousand times if I had to!
But after all the misery,
Who are you even, really?
What are you
But a thought in my mind,
An experience, a memory?
This story is about me, remember?
Just me.
Though the sheer insignificance
Of my existence may hurt me sometimes,
And even though you don't see me, refuse to, even,
I’m right here.
Who cares, nothing matters in this world.
We only go on acting like it does.
Everything’s puny, meaningless, opaque,
Or beautiful, if you prefer the sweeter flavor of the same dish.
You are as crucial to this world
As this little leaf here on the branch.
Self is an illusion,
And yet we envy another's perceived version of self.
You just can’t know something beyond a point here, apparently.
How is one expected to navigate
A foreign scape with no rules, no reality,
And no clue of what might be their role in the Lore?
Funny little world!