Kismet


 
Some memories we collect for prosperity, some for the story, and then there are some I collect just for me, and I keep them on the very top of my bookshelf where no one can see- not even I. 

With fondness, I have held the memories of my cringiest moments close to my heart. I have never once thought of myself as small for having those moments, because I now get to look back on them. I look back on them and I think of myself as having grown past that stage. Yet, I find that Im wanting that kind of courage once more, the kind that never cared for the consequences of loving too hard and hating just the same, never cared for the thin line that existed between. The kind of courage that made all my dreams come true, the kind that pushed me forward all the time. 

 At one point in my life after I thought I had lost that courage, I thought of myself as clarity. I learned to maintain eye contact and to pay real attention to what people are saying and what they're not. I think of myself as having grown past needing that kind of reckless courage that belongs solely to teenagers, the kind that they can use to command life the way they will never be able to after a certain age. 

I had used up all of that courage, for the best things; more accurately, I think it has used me up. I'm tired. God, I'm tired. With tears in my eyes, I am tired. I am exhausted from smiling. I am worn out from being worn. I am tired of having to ask to know, as if I don't deserve to know; like I haven't earned anything at all from this life. I am tired. I think that I am tired enough to not try. I am tired enough that I'd rather not anymore. What a privilege it is to be tired of the thing you love. What a privilege it is to be tired. But don't I deserve to be tired at this point?

There was a time when a single word could command a reaction out of me and a single name could move me, I hope that I am not that person anymore. I need more. I need to look into people's eyes and know if satisfaction is found in their flesh or their soul without having to guess. I need to hear their choice of words to know if they're worthy of my breath without having to beg. But I am so tired that I don't want what I need anymore. 

A hundred million little things did happen after all, just as I thought they would. It genuinely feels like kismet, like the kind of thing that aligns only once and only after a decade of living, laughing and loving. As if the very energy that bubbles my laughter and fuses love with life is the thing that makes kismet. It feels like the kind of thing that happens with work, time, and pace. Maybe not. Still, I get to say that I found my kismet, but no one will ever know how devastating it had been to watch kismet come and go in a flash; with blazing lights it had forced me to blink- and that was enough to miss it all. 

Now, I'm just tired. 

JVL






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