Not

This is (not) love.

I do (not) want to grow old with you.

I do (not) pendulum between despair and exhilaration when I hear from you.

I do (not) want to be with you, in any way, shape, or form.

I do (not) think of you, first thing in the morning.

I do (not) want to talk to you about everything and nothing.

I do (not) want to take care of you.

I do (not) think you’re cute.

I do (not) want to be yours.

It’s (not) like I’m in love.

Irrational Fear of The Unknown Estimate of Distance

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Some of my irrational fears include—

what if I took a bus ride too soon,or cancelled out on a gathering, or decided on a different career path, or shopped one aisle too far away, or dropped something and looked down…

and in that fragment of a second, I’ve missed the love of my life, passing by; and completely changed the course of my fate.

What is the distance (time and space), that separates me from you?

Something Beautiful About X

Dear Seafarer,

There’s something beautiful about people who are comfortable in their own skin, doing whatever the hell they want.  I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s something about the way they move, or the languid pace at which they navigate a chaotic world. It could be the relaxed muscles of their body, or the bright, toothy smile that lights up half their face, or the deep, bellowing, guffaws of appreciation when they’ve found something amusing. Or it could be the way they don’t take themselves too seriously. A guy singing off-key, who half-interrupts his own tune with broken laughter. A girl breaking into a spontaneous dance mid-way on the street. A muscular, tattooed guy with flowers in his beard.  A busker on the streets, strumming under the sun. An old woman in shades and a florid yellow bikini with all her sagging bits hanging out, but hey, why the hell not, and screw the world.

There’s something so beautiful about people who are so engrossed in something, that you can see every fibre of their being concentrated into the act. They’ve set their minds to something, and they are going for the stars. Pure, condensed, unshakeable focus. Almost as if in a deep trance, and you half-believe that if you touched them you would feel a burning heat. How ironic is it, that they are at their most attractive, when there isn’t an inch of space for you in their minds. 

There’s something beautiful about people who are childishly enthusiastic about something. They’re radiating energy and excitement and passion and interest, and you just know in your heart that you’re glimpsing a precious piece of their soul. Their eyes are shining and they’re talking so fast you can barely keep up, but they could be talking about anything from mineral rocks to the possibility of a fourth dimension, and you’d still listen because it’s absolutely captivating.

There’s something beautiful about people who are vulnerable. They’re putting their heart on the line and it probably scares the hell out of them and it’s so, so, very difficult to do whatever they’re about to do, and you hold your breath, because you’re quietly witnessing the depths of human courage.

There’s something beautiful about being alive, with your soul liberated and free, and you’re finally embodying the essence of who you were meant to be. You’re burning your brightest like a shooting star, with meaning and purpose and clarity coursing like electric through your veins. You are alive and you are significant and you are important and you are loved; and for the first time in years, you embrace what it feels like and you don’t fight it.

There’s something beautiful about scars. There are the ones that are visible to the eye, and you can trace them, like tree roots blooming across once-broken skin. Then there are the ones you’ll need a lifetime to uncover, because they’re hidden behind pretend-smiles and “I’m fines,” but wait just long enough and you’ll surely catch a glimpse of cracks: a flash of insecurity, a sadness you cannot fathom, a hurt you cannot follow. But that’s the thing about scars. They are our natural reminders of how healing is always taking place, and perhaps one day, they’ll leave flowers instead of thorns within their wake.