a letter to myself #BBSCTask

You claim to be a poet. You claim to be a writer. But when you are asked to write about yourself, why does the color of speech leave your tongue? Why do the stars leave your eyes? Stars, that you are constantly dreaming of, but never reaching for. You claim to be a dreamer, one who believes in love, but why do your hands always feel a mile short of warmth? When you get what you want, you then feel unsatisfied about something else after.

And that's the problem, dear. You want so much. Stop pretending you don't. You are a supernova of complexities, webs and hearts entangled in your system. You can't even decide if you're made of see-through glass or if you embody a locked up book. Tell me, what are you so scared of?

You're scared of prolonged on-the-edge conversations; knowing there's no connection, but opening your mouth with strings of sentences anyway. I know you dread dead air - as dead as the words stuck to the roof of your mouth - but you barely even try.

I know you can connect with people you barely know. Whether it's five-minute long small talk with a teacher or an hour-long in-depth conversation with someone you admire, I know you can open your heart to new possibilities. 

Your heart is your most prized possession. You have so much love to give - please do not be afraid. But in the process, do not forget to save the most (not some) for yourself. You are a supernova of complexities, with love embedded in each and every neuron. Love, and learn. Give, but do not expect to be given.

Please do not be discouraged. When the dark clouds rain on your cheeks, let them. But remember that waiting behind them is the sun, wishing to dry the floods in your heart. You will not drown. Repeat this to yourself like a mantra, like a promise, when you're sitting in the familiarity of the darkness and the waves in your mind threaten to throw you over. Remind yourself this, and breathe. Let your lungs appear behind your eyelids and let the air flow in and out. Do this like you have several times before, and smile, because you know it's just another day.

Keep in your heart your voice, that croons melodies and questions our society; your hands, that only ever know the curves of your ukulele and the firmness of a pen; your mind, that tires itself out twenty-five hours a day; and your feet, that support your being for every booty drop you do.

You claim to be a poet. You claim to be a writer. While you are painting the world with your speech, please do not forget to live.