Today, I write not of the exquisite beauty that is the universe, or all of it that I see in your eyes.

No. Today, I write about me. Let me unravel in front of you, as I lay bare the garments of time and memory which I’ve adorned for so long that they’ve become second and third and fourth and many more layers of skin, eventually making me forget what it’s like being really naked.

 

I was a timid child.

Too afraid, too protected of the world which was a mediocre playground at best, and the devil’s own workshop at worst. The apprehension I faced to venture out was quickly squashed when I found you, my dear friend. You held my hand and pulled me into the open world so fast, that my childhood went past in a blur, although I remember every speed bump and every highway and every pitstop. I would like to drive that old road again.

 

I was a gullible adult.

Too believing, too trusting of the people who excelled at playing with this thing called the heart, and who almost always won in a strange game called Love. I knew how to play the way my mother had taught me, and although I failed miserably, I couldn’t give up. My heart fell deep and it fell fast, and I refused to learn any other rules to play this game. I knew it was all worth it when I found you, my dear lover. You embraced me so tight that all scars on my heart fell and shattered, and I felt reborn. I would love for this embrace to never break.

 

As I hurtle through this life, unaware of what lies beneath my next step, I know that these two crutches of mine will never falter.

I am an open book, and many have written all over me, tore out my pages violently, forced me close many times, but I remain this way, free for all to read, a guide to some, a story to many. I am made up of words and my stories span my life, and this book is far from ending. A new day turns a new page. I was me, but now he’s gone.

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