Since the beginning, it has always been my intention to leave an impression upon everyone I’ve met. Be it a warm smile at an old memory, a chuckle or even just the thought of me; I wanted a piece of my soul to find residence inside the emptiness residing in all of you. I thought, maybe my emptiness wouldn’t be so empty if I filled my soul with echoes. Perhaps it was naive of me, but I didn’t expect the resulting hollowness of my being to ache so deeply. I thought pain was having a soul sore from sadness, but pain is loneliness. Pain is sitting up at 3 AM with nothing but your thoughts because you told your friends you were going to sleep. Pain is listening to the whir of the fan as it fills the hole you’ve carved deep within yourself. Pain is realizing that it was that the little things, like “good~night” and “I~miss~you” that kept you going.
I always thought that I would be the one to leave a deep impression on someone’s soul. At some point, I reached deep within myself and felt the nooks and grooves of a thousand death-bound stars. I realized then that it was all of you who had left an impression on me. Here I was: a young soul with dreams as far away as the stars themselves. Maybe with enough hope, I could reach them someday. How idiotic of me. Of course, there was no way to reach the stars. Though I had my eyes set on one day grasping the silver beam of light, it never occurred to me that the stars might touch me. Indeed, they did, but I didn’t know that something so beautiful could burn so intensely. Maybe that’s why they call it being star-struck.
I’ve been touched by too many stars. I’ve been burned so deeply that I can’t tell the difference between the lacerations on my soul or the desperation in my heart. To me, they are one in the same. Both wallow in misery as tears pour aimlessly down my face. You’d think I would know by now that beauty is gilded; that warmth was something best observed from a distance. Yet, here I am, still reaching for the jaded dreams that pulled me into this despair. Though, amidst the melancholy, there’s a sense of peace.
It’s like the resignation of a thousand years stretched a thousand miles too far. It’s the angst that tells you, maybe it won’t be so bad to keep your eyes closed a few millennium longer. It’s the agony that whips you into submission after the sacrifice of another piece of yourself. Honestly, what is it all for? It can’t be love because love cuts like anger and stings like jealousy. I say, it must not be for much. After all the beatings I’ve suffered, I’ve gained too little to have lost so much. I just want to lay here and indulge in all the pain that has been painted on the canvas of my emptiness– and I would.
It’s just that, despite all of the suffering, there’s something in me that is drawn toward the flickering of despondent souls. So I march onward, intent on saving lives though all that’s left is stardust.