You’re always worthy of someone’s love. Never forget that. You can be the most pitiful, most disgusting, most obnoxious, most terrible person that exists in this world.
But someone’s worthy of your love and they’re worthy of yours.
Don’t ever forget that.
They tell us to let it be. They tell us that everything will turn out for the better. They tell us that the universe is unfolding as it should.
So if the universe is unfolding as it should, does that mean that my suffering (and the collective suffering of humanity) is right, proper, and truly the grand scheme of things?
If this is the plan, then why should I be happy about it? I’m mad as hell, because this plan sounds like shit.
Being a pallbearer is really weird. It feels like you’re carrying a box, but you’re also conveying a loved one into the next world. Except, they already went, so what are we doing again?
Sorry, let’s rewind to before someone killed my grandmother.
"It’s like some Greek fucking tragedy. Star crossed lovers, paradise-turned-sour, vengeful powers at work, and all that shit," I say all of this; a puff of the cigarette acting as punctuation. "I would love to figure out where you or I went wrong, just so that I can make amends to whatever jealous deity we’ve offended. I’d even settle for some moral of the story or a life lesson to be learned. This just feels like some divine temper tantrum.
I’ve loved women I shouldn’t have and loved ones that I should have and didn’t take a chance on ‘em. I’ve loved some like a friend, like they were the sister I didn’t have, and I’ve loved some like a man loves a woman. I’ve loved the rough ones, the good ones, the quiet ones, the ambitious ones,…
Inside every heart, there’s a bastion. Some small part of them that is almost possible to open for any outsider. This last fortification is all that keeps us as a person. When everything is stripped away; this is who we are. But it’s damn hard when you strip yourself back that far. It’s hard as hell to start back from that point.