I think of my life in two ways. On one side there is an immense tragedy of the unfulfilled, the deadening day where I watch myself sink into misery and depression, where I am cheated on, abused, and brutalized, where I am convinced I am nothing, and where there is mediocrity displaced greatly, absolutely, and still somehow, scantily average. On the other side is you. There is the bright summer spent alongside your immense joy. There are nights where I spun with the world. And there are the moments of conjecture that I might just be infinite. We might last, after all.
I do not tell you this enough, dear. Life obscures. It fetishes the fumbling forward, necessitating a continual look to some distant thing. We’re not good with perspective. Hell, I wear glasses.
But such blatant myopia is no more a product of the very same glass that makes me me: I focus. I dirty. I must clean again.
This is my attempt, dear. You have bridged the lands that sat lazy and unused. You salvaged the night sky from the gashes of the stars. You looked up at me and said, in my total darkness, that I had a chance. That I could still live a life that would wake my bones alive.
Now that you are 28, I do not know what that closeness or that farness looks for you. Still, I give what you gave me: a security to be and to also forget being. I did not need to be heavy. I was light myself.
I have written previously, dear, that you are the brightest thing, you are the greatest universe. I mean it. Know you inspire, that your very breath can rattle mountains of grief, and that you are radiance. Simply. Completely.
I am lucky to know you and to know that even in this current distance, you will still see me without my glasses. Then, when we are drunk or dancing or both, you will tell me that there are more than two ways to think of a life. For one, you’ll might say, you can act on it.
Acting in love for a happy birthday,