I want to live, though I am prepared to die. I hope it is painless, but I hope it slow—slow, so that I may have the time to thank those who have changed me.
If I might see hope, I pray it is brilliant and bright and fast so that the afterimage might guide me through the darker moments.
I’m not so much a fool as I am foolish. I think myself a flighty thing, graceless and mildly uncomfortable talking to strangers. Grace costs nothing. I give it freely and without thought, but I often stumble where else it matters.
I’m as curious as I am uncertain—oblivious. And maybe it’s better that way. If life has taught me anything, it is that I can forget things just as easily as I’ve learned them.
I’ve passion, sure. But I find it hard to feign interest in the things expected of me. I want to be noticed, but only in the way you smell the perfect perfume in a crowd of strangers. I want not to talk, but I want not to be alone. I have love—so much love—but I sure would hate to lose it.
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