We live so that we might die

There are rules for this life, I know. There are ways of being. I have chosen my way. I am 28 now, but I won’t resort to clichés about how old that makes me. I am as old as today, as the time I woke those few minutes before my alarm beeped its unpleasantries, until this moment when I drew these thoughts towards me. I am not afraid of this life.

I am not afraid of getting old, because I know that my mind will adjust with these changes. It is only when I go back to the place where I grew up that I see how far I have come, or rather how far away I have gone. I walk streets and know memories; know who I was and what I did once. I am not that person and perhaps I never was. How can we really know ourselves when we change so quickly – our skin cells shedding en masse, as much as our memories do?

It does not matter what you did to me. The beauty of age is the art of forgetting that one learns, or perhaps the art of beauty is forgetting how to learn, because we love most that which we know. You only matter to me if you are present, if I can remember the colour of your eyes and know the smell of your breath. You only matter to me if what I feel now is dependent on you. I have only fond, fleeting glimpses of time’s past and I am happy to live by remembering to forget.

There are rules for life. They are scattered around the internet as a means to feel better about oneself. They contradict and confuse more than they help. Don’t pay too much attention. Truthfully, no one can show me how to be happy, not even me. I am what I am. I just have to trust that with sadness comes happiness and that I won’t feel that same way for the rest of my life.

I am no longer afraid to be alone. I have to trust that statement. I have to believe that my purpose will become clear in time. My life is endless, boundless, an eternity, because tonight I will close my eyes and today will no longer matter. It makes me invincible. Let go. Trust in growth, trust in time.

We live so that we might die. Our certainty comes from death, our uncertainty from living.

The Scabs on your Body

I barely know you as you lie lean and naked upon my bed. In an instant I can forget your face. I bend my head down to feel your skin on my lips and see the tiny succession of scabs on the dents of your rib bones. I realise then that I have witnessed them healing; the skin is whiter, the hard crusts thinner than the last time I noticed them. I take a moment to savour this new found knowledge before I trace the tip of my tongue down the furrows of your stomach muscles. You taste of salt and living and progress.

There has been time. We are becoming.

Part of me feels content in the notion of coming together, of sharing our time and of forming our own memories. I am content for a moment in this unity of skin. The fearful part of me despairs, because those scabs speak of something else. They speak of knowing you and of feeling something. They also remind me that everything has a finite existence; vulnerable to time and human nature. They remind me that progress is not always forward, but sometimes divergent and opposite. I might not always be able to watch your body heal itself; I might not always be witness to your growth, your fluctuations of feelings and the progress of your life.

For now I have your scabs, a small reminder that you are breathing, feeling me, and that beneath me, right now, we are becoming.