Moonshine

The Gold On Your Teeth Will Fall Out

My dearest,

There is a peculiar loneliness in choosing oneself, a solitude heavy with the knowledge that even those who claim to know the depths of our soul remain bewildered by the paths we take. They speak with the confidence of understanding, but, oh, how often their certainty is mere illusion! How little they know of the storms that rage within us, of the shadows we carry in silence.

But I have come to believe, my love, that this solitude is necessary. To give joy to another, must we not first possess it ourselves? How can one pour water from an empty vessel? I have long held this thought: a person who knows happiness becomes fertile soil for creation, and in creation lies a rare and luminous wisdom. Yet all of this begins not with others, but with oneself.

And yet, what do they see of the cost? The beauty they admire is but a facade, masking the weary soul, the silent cries of exhaustion, the sacrifices made to appear as something splendid. Oh, they call it beautiful, this place I have stood in for so long, but if they could smell the air here! It reeks of decay. The filth clings to the walls, the ground is stained, and the light is false—so false it wounds the eyes.

I was once deceived, too. I saw this place through rose-colored glass, or perhaps I chose not to see at all. How cruel the lies were, and how willingly I embraced them! But now, my darling, I have seen the greener lands beyond the horizon. I have glimpsed their promise, their air so sweet and free, and I find myself yearning to walk toward them—to escape the suffocation of this prison.

There are places where one is truly loved, cherished, chosen. I long for such a place, and to find it, I must first choose myself. I must dare to breathe, to feel the air in my lungs, to know the lightness of being alive. Even if they judge me, even if they call me selfish or mad, I will choose myself, for only then can I truly live.

Yes, sacrifices will come. There will be pain, as there always is. Perhaps I will stumble again, find myself in yet another place of sorrow. But if there is even a fleeting chance to taste joy, to feel alive for one brief moment, is that not worth the risk? To feel the pulse of life, to ache with the desire to live—that is what I seek.

And so, my love, forgive me if I seem distant, if my steps lead me away from what once was. I am not abandoning you; I am finding myself. Only then, perhaps, can I truly return—not as a shadow, but as a whole, breathing soul.

Yours, always yearning.