Bits of rapture and fleeting emotions.

Tiny glimpses of real human moments lost in the silent scream of our everyday lives.

A simple string of vowels and consonants that sing louder than a hundred pages of big, useless verbatim.

Bits of clarity in the fog of hypocrisy and facades that spill from every single one of us.

Bits of real humanity that we squander and ignore, passing off as weakness or some sort of fault within us; as if it were evil to be human.

I’m not perfect, or anywhere close.

I’m broken, shattered, and held together by cheap duct tape and Elmer’s glue.

I’m fucked up. I’m a fuck up.

But that’s what all the extraordinary people are.

Broken, lost, and confused.

Savants in the truest sense of the word; who lie to themselves in order to be normal, who throw away who they really are just so they don’t feel so alone.

But you’re not alone. And you aren’t the only one of your kind.

Be proud of being fucked up.

Be proud of bearing burdens that would cripple anyone else, all while faking a smile.

Be proud of thinking more than you think you should, and be proud of the few bits of rapture and fleeting emotions that are left in this sterile world.

You are one of the few who still allow those ethereal moments to exist.

So don’t ever think that you’re any less than you are, just because you’re different.

You.

The ones who feign stupidity to fit into society, who fake the motions on dates just to get laid, who would never tell their friends that they enjoy Lizst more than the most popular sell-out band at the time.

The ones who post song lyrics, poems, and quotes, secretly hoping someone will understand that you have just laid out your soul in front of them, and all you want is someone who has felt the way you feel at that moment.

The ones who listen to the same songs on repeat, because the words numb you with their cold empathy, and will never judge you.

The ones who are cursed to never forget, as much as they want to. Who wear memories as scars, unseen but deeper than any sword could gash.

The ones who leave pieces of their heart in everyone they have ever loved, who are regarded as fuck-ups; when they are the only ones who really know the meaning of love.

The ones who never said a word to anyone, and just sobbed quietly in the saddest sense of the word; as the hammer clicks and the bullet becomes the first and last thing that ever did shit for their pain.

You aren’t alone.

And you aren’t a horrible person, or any sort of evil for being who you are.

Maybe you’re just like me;

fucked up,

flawed,

and broken beyond repair.

But that’s the best thing about you.

So never lose those tiny bits of rapturous insanity.

Remember every single fleeting emotion.

Smile so fucking hard your teeth crack.

Die laughing as the evanescence of each moment burns you alive.

Because they’re your moments.

And even though you you may not realize it, they all matter.

Because if a stained glass window is cracked,

all it means is that it was fucking beautiful enough

to endure for so fucking long.

It existed long enough to be broken.

Because it’s only the beautiful things that break.