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foreshadowed it, as every leaf of yours told a story. And even though I couldn’t read any of
them; I felt them in my bones as I walked through life.
They tell me “it gets better”, and maybe it has. Even though my words aren’t flowery, they’re my
own. Even though I fail to appeal to everyone, I still feel more like myself. But maybe that isn’t a
good thing either. The more I live with the idea of myself, the less I feel like a depiction of a
human being; two eyes, two ears, and a nose. I have days where I feel every atom of dopamine
surrounding me, but not as many as I thoight there would be, and nights where I’d go to sleep
with fulfilment, even though I’d wake up with delusion.
I do feel awfully mundane though. I can’t fathom waking up in the morning at the same
time, exchanging greetings with the same people, and sitting in the same rooms everyday. Even
though I’ve never valued change, it feels like a source of sustenance to a thirst that arrives at the
most unwanted times. Living for a reputation doesn’t feel like a life, and feeling for the sake of
feeling doesn’t feel authentic.
And if I do leave, maybe it’s for the best. Would it be a great tragedy, would people cry as the
sound of my voice in their head fades away, and the conversations turn to memories. Time
however isn’t on my side, and as it’s fig season there are more fruits on the tree, I have no choice
but to pluck one out.
But whichever fig I pick, salty or sweet, hard or soft; I’d like to thank you for everything, and I
hope you serve as the same muse you were
to me.
With love and sunlight,
Abbas