the pangs of hurt at 17

When you're 17, you think that your world begins and ends with the boy who treats you like dogshit. Who will tell you he loves you but tells 3 others he loves them too. Who will tell you you're never going to make it without him. He was my favourite illusion. Fuck that.

When you're 18, well, there's a strange realisation that maybe you were wrong about life. the existential crisis hits. the floods of emotions break in. the unfathomable pain and hurt of knowing you deserve better. (i did deserve better, didn't i?)

When you're 19, the world seems cruel. everything hurts. everything sucks. its not any less painful like they said. 'I was the gifted one', 'Where did life go wrong', 'I was supposed to be remarkable' 

And then it hits you at 20. Sometimes I think the world is pale and grey, edging into oblivion and darkness but then I dig into the blurry memoirs i write in my mind, with beautiful women and men who hold onto minuscule threads of hope. I see the beauty veiled in kind faces and soft hands. Maybe my world isn't so bad after all. 

at 21, you escape the arms of lovers, wondering 'How am I too much but somehow never enough at the same time?' When he asks me what we were, I tell him nothing. But i don't dare to say that some nights when he breathes down my name, i wish it were you instead. I don't tell him 'its nothing now, but it was everything then'

You see, memories arent so often about recalling the past as they are about softening the present. 

I think it's time to let go. 

                               Dont you?

                                        yes. i suppose it is

                                                     and so you do. 

You let go of everything tying you down to your life. you forget. you fathom and eventually, you create your own home. a home with no roars, with no screams or banging doors, with magnificent gardens and pink skies where children roam free, where mothers don't give up on their dreams, where father isn't an angry man in the house. 

Tonight, in your house, you are infinities colliding, galaxies unifying, mothers meeting lost sons, you are priceless and beautiful. Hold on to that.