Young and Unafraid

I was meant to be soft spoken, but I destroy with mere words.

I was meant to be understanding, but I hate as intensely and with greater frequency than I love.

I was meant to be slow to anger, but the rate of my ignition is something quite alarming.

I was meant to be intelligent, but I’m not.

Compassionate, witty, attractive, wholesome, and—most of all—happy.

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, I remember each fragment breaking off and slowly drifting away like so much ice from iceberg. At first, I think it scared me…

Yes, it definitely did.

Eventually I became calloused—the true danger of callousness being its incremental and forgetful nature.

So I sit and write with this awareness, but with a tired spirit than can do nothing about it, except observe, grow more cynical, and pine for things that once were….

…and scariest of all, pretend like this present state of mind doesn’t exist.

They perpetuate the lie.