To my younger self who I loved too hard.
Can you lie next to her and give her your heart? Not only did I give her my heart, but I promised away my life on my bleeding hands and knees. I swore she was worth more than just a blood beating organ, more than a soul of kindness, a smile that I loved so much, a little laugh, and a life that I now miss. I lied beside her and promising a fortuitous future and a royal worthy existence, yet not of money or fame, but of a life worth more than millions. I promised to go to the depths of the earth, hunting a suitable crown for her inner beating beauty and her unworldly exquisiteness. Because this girl that I loved was worth more than the crowns of kings and queens centuries before her existence. Such invaluable pieces were worthless to such a heart that outshined them. A smile that twinkled brighter than their diamonds and a heart which was more rare, and still a soul more pure than the gold that embellished them. I lay beside her every night in dreams of journeys and expeditions taking me across the globe, to show her the world. There were wars to fight, battles to win and ships to sail across the harsh seas. For her.
But it was my fault, loving you with my whole heart. I didn’t think when I sent myself too far and got lost in trying. Too far into the jungle of dangers and darkness and too deep into the unforgiving sea, drowning under storming white wash. I didn’t think giving you my whole heart, the whole world, could make me kneel before death, but when I spread myself too thin, I died for you. A love too strong and a world you were too good for.
Met with a white blank page and a swelling grief. As a writer, familiarity with white blank pages is unlike anything else. So inviting to a mind that is spun with thoughts and ideas and beautiful stories to paint across the blank sheet. So forgiving when given thousands of new ones for mistakes or alterations, never needing a final draft. However, this white page, one lacking the story of the girl who I loved, was impossible to begin. Intimidating to bring my fingers to a keyboard, to pick up a pen and press its ink into it. My mind, normally entranced with new stories, words, and thoughts lacked even a fitting title. Faced with a blank page and at a loss of words for months, the white sheet remained untouched. Until eventually, I began with a blue pen, writing “the”, crossed it out. One. Two. Twelve days passed. I began again, “I was”, and drew a sharp line through it. More days dragged by. One. Two. Ten. I picked up that same blue pen and began writing with an grieving mind, “She was a girl”, and my pen drew its blade over it again. One. Two. Seven. The white page, so familiar to me, called out again beckoning for another chance. So with blue ink beneath my fingers I started. “I miss the”. Slice. It was paining to begin a new story without my old one, without the same heart guiding my every thought. My soul that now lacked her rarity and my smile that was no longer as bright couldn’t make it as beautiful as her own. My mind without her grace no longer deserved the same fairy tale. One. Two. Five. I wrote, “Who am I”, another inked blade severed my words. Make-up stained black tears fell onto the now ink sullied page, but its contents remained blank. Wet hands gripped at the corners ready to tear it apart, inch by inch. But, One. Two. Three days passed now. I began again, “It’s okay”. The words stared back at me and my mind spun them around for longer this time. Questioning, “It’s okay”, I repeated, but my hands gripped the pen and divided the words into two. One day passed. I stared at the blank page and the death of my prior ideas. But carefully, my pens ink tip pressed onto the paper, “I forgive you”. I forgive that girl who died for love, and I forgive my younger self who I gave my heart to. Too long had gone by longing to see that young girl again, so I wrote a new story to become me woven with a part of her heart. To have a soul entangled with hers and a smile that smiles because of her. My pen scribbled and sliced and drew and painted pages and pages. Chapters and chapters. And I heard this quote once, “A writer never stops at the first draft, there’s always a second, always a third, and always can be better”. To that, to my younger self, my first draft, I never thought I’d need a second one, but here I am making our story day by day. To becoming a published author and having a best selling book for you and your deserving soul, my words will paint forever.
