You Were Everything But Love
You're always looking for the extraordinary.
Always missing and glossing over the ordinary, the mundane. Running from the quiet and peaceful parts of life, all the times of stillness and silence. Always living on the edges of your existence, teetering precariously on the finest of lines, over the deepest of chasms. Pushing every limit imaginable. Always on the go. Always in constant motion.
This is why you never find clarity. This is why you never find peace. Because you’ve never stopped anywhere long enough to watch and wait for the water to settle, the dust to clear; to let the weary seasons that linger within your spirit take their natural course of birth and death, growth and rest.
Of tension, and release.
You live in this haze of perpetual sleeplessness, the kind that never quite leaves you at ease, or at peace. Because your mind, your spirit, your soul, remains hungry for something you don’t quite know, or remember. Or maybe you’ve just tried too hard to forget. You are neither truly rested nor truly awake. Never quite full; never quite fulfilled. You’ve never known how to feed yourself without fear, to nourish your soul with real sustenance that lasts; that satisfies and not just gratifies; that calms and quells the trembling rage of storms that remain trapped within your restless body.
You’re always testing your limits because you’ve never really found where you belong. You crave this constant stimulation, reminders that you are alive, that you can feel, that you are capable, that you’ve survived.
What wounds do you hide that drive you to seek refuge in risk, in the extreme, even torment? What compels you to seek all the pain you almost relish, in order to mask, or maybe manifest, the deep gashes in your soul? To drown out the weeping wails of your heart?
I’ve looked into the black holes within your eyes and I know that you no longer know happiness. You have never been healed. And now, you never let yourself hope. Always in fear of being let down, of being left; of finding ever more disappointment, heartbreak, heartache. Expecting it, even reaching out for it. Pressing so hard to find it that you end up creating it. And sometimes, maybe most times now, you no longer ask, or try, or dare to dream, at all.
After all, they have never kept their promises.
You’re always seeking to touch the face of death, maybe because you feel you were never really born. Or that you never should have been in the first place. Sometimes you feel like a haunted ghost of all your pasts; weightless, empty, yet carrying a heaviness so intangible that you’re untouchable because you’re so far gone, and out of reach. You’ve lived so many lives in your lifetime, but somehow, you still don’t really know what it’s like to feel alive.
I’ve never understood how someone who holds so much greatness could have a love that feels so small. But I see it now. I could never have your whole heart because you never let yourself be whole in the first place. And you never wanted the rest of me, or the best of me, because you needed me to stay small, and weak, and vulnerable, so that you could feel big, and strong, and powerful.
You loved me because next to me, you felt more beautiful.
And it was only by being more than me, by being extraordinary, and never letting yourself disappear into the crowd, to be lost into the masses of the mediocre and the mundane, that you could tell yourself that you mattered. Or that you existed at all.
The one thing I wanted most from you, I never did get. Mostly because you didn’t have it to give. You could do it all, do everything. You had it all. You had everything.
You were everything, but love.