words kept close and spoken in the dark [POETRY - Completed]

A Letter to My Thirty-One and Eleven Year Old Selves - ORIGINAL PROSE

It was around a month, give or take, before I turn twenty one. I have been thinking about the importance of this date for some time, perhaps for much of the year I have been twenty. When people ask me how old I am, I always resort to saying “I’m a few months from turning twenty one,” or “I turn twenty one in -insert month here-.” In a few weeks, no longer will I be in the first year of my twenties, people expect me to have figured out or grasped what it means to be an adult in our current world, perhaps not to have discovered who I am , but what I want should be at least a secure, achievable idea in my brain. It is the first year of the 2020s, a few days past New Years, I have spoken to many a person about what this means politically, individually, emotionally, mentally, it’s sure to be an eventful time and I can only imagine the ways we, as humans, as a society, will fuck it up. Wars will come and go, people will live and die, the economy shall rise and fall and rise again, political leaders shall rise in infamy, I hope the lives of the masses shall be kept at the forefront of our minds when we enter the voting booths in the coming years, speaking and giving a voice to the most vulnerable in our society. I pray for salvation and I pray for animals, small or big, prey or predator, for they shall surely suffer at the hands of humans who only care to line their pockets. I hope I change in the next ten years, I hope I change in the next few weeks, I know I have already changed in the last decade of my life, for my teen years remained chaotic and dysfunctional for the most part, but I don’t want my twenties to suffer the same fate. I don’t know how to defeat the demons which occupy the space between my ears, does anyone know? Sometimes it’s hard to remember I am not the only person in the world, for how can there be anyone else? In the pale white four walls of my family house, I write with a somber heart, finding solace in these words not likely to reach the masses, embarrassment and humiliation sure to follow if I dared to be known, seen, heard in any real, tangible capacity. I heard a quote somewhere about finding love when one makes known to people, but I don’t know how to portion out my love in tiny, manageable chunks, all or nothing is the only way my heart knows how to love. It is broken and battered, it is bent and out of shape, no longer resembling the hearts I see on cards and useless teddy bears I shall surely see in the stores come Valentines, but not everyone knows how to handle such intensity, for how can they? When faced with life, I don’t know how to either. When faced with death, I don’t know how to ignore it, I read a book this past decade which talks about teenagers falling in love, facing the inevitability of their deaths and knowing how much it hurts to lose yourself, to lose your love all at once. I don’t think either of them knew how to portion out their love, but they fell regardless. The book ends with the prospect of our protagonist’s inevitable death, a eulogy read aloud by her love, who ultimately succumbed to his addiction masquerading behind metaphors and unlit cigarettes; he writes that he hopes she likes her choices, for he liked his, and she can only agree, for she did, she did, she did. I hoped in the next ten years of my life, I find a love passionate, deep, meaningful, full of life, joy and love; not just for another person, to be returned in all its messiness, chaos and freedom, but for myself, for I don’t want my twenties to be clouded by sadness, like my teens were. A love full of love, I like the sound of that.

To my eleven year old self, you have so much growing up to do, but don’t grow up too fast. Keep playing with barbies and playing pretend, because the world is so much harsher than you’d like to believe. Don’t force love, let it grow with patience and care, for those people you wish to impress? I can barely remember their names. School doesn’t matter, but education will teach you so much about yourself and your life. Fantasy shields you from the world, music helps you to your feet when you can’t find the strength to stand, but it will be you who will push you forward in your time of need. A decade has past and I’m still trying to find myself, but life has a way of figuring itself out. Let yourself breathe. I wish I could hug you.

To my thirty one year old self, I don’t know you but I imagine you often. Who are you? What are you doing? Where are you? Did everything work out the way we always planned? You seem more of an idea than a fully-fledged person, for I cannot imagine being where you are. Nothing works out how you plan, perhaps I still need to learn this, though I cannot help but wonder. Does writing still spark the same joy it does now? Have you published the work I keep hidden in drawers and confined to the online space? Are you married? Are you happy? Are you free? Are you nothing at all? You probably have some choice words to say to me, maybe you wish to hug me, as I wished to hug my younger self, for I don’t know what lies in my future. I hope good things await, I hope new things await, I hope new people, new friends, new family, a new me waits. I hope to change each day, authentic in my progression, no longer bound to what drives self destruction and fear. I hope you are well. I don’t know what you deal with, I don’t know what you wish to forget, but I hope I have forgotten all which tormented me in my life up to this point. I wish to make it a fresh start, I hope you can find it in your heart to do the same. I don’t know if there’s much advise I can give to someone so much older than myself, but if I had to say one thing it’d be this: don’t compromise who you are for others, you will find happiness once again.

To my twenty one year old self, I’ll see you soon. I can’t wait to meet you.