(Life, Love, Death, and the Words We Cling To)

I hate myself.

Some days I wake up and feel like I’m made of smoke. Like one day I’ll grow wings — not angelic ones, but ones from some strange chemical reaction: death, freedom, release.

But then… I read words. I remember words. I breathe them.

"Nobody is gonna hit as hard as life."
But "it ain’t how hard you can hit. It’s how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward."

That’s how winning is done, they say.

But what if winning means simply surviving the night? What if winning is keeping your soul intact in a world that chews it, spits it out, and asks for more?

"Life is like a box of chocolates."
Sometimes bitter. Sometimes sweet. And you never know what you’ll get.

I move fast — maybe too fast.
"Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
I’ve missed a lot.
I don’t want to miss more.

And sometimes I want to stop completely. I think about freedom in its cruelest form. Wings again. The chemical reaction.

But another voice whispers: "The very things that hold you down are going to lift you up."

I sit with that.
I sit with hope, a thing I barely trust.

"Beginnings are scary, endings are sad, but it's the middle that counts the most."
And I am in the middle.

I’ve loved, too. Too deeply. Too wrongly.

"We fell in love, despite our differences, and something rare and beautiful was created."
"The truth is I gave my heart away a long time ago."
"I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special."

My heart is stupid and stubborn. It keeps beating, even broken.
"A heart can be broken, but it keeps beating just the same."

And the world is loud.
"You talking to me?" it asks.
"Are you not entertained?" it mocks.
"Why so serious?" it sneers.

Because sometimes, world — sometimes I am hanging on by one fraying thread.

And yet:
"Happiness is only real when shared."

So I write this.
I write this for you — whoever you are reading this in the dark.
For the lost, the hurting, the longing.
For the ones who know that "our lives are not fully lived if we're not willing to die for those we love."

And I love. Still. Somehow.

"I can't see anything I don't like about you."
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
"I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone."

I am so afraid of time. Of losing. Of never being enough.
But then I remember:
"You had me at hello."
"To me, you are perfect."
"If you’re a bird, I’m a bird."

The world says:
"Adventure is out there."
And some days I almost believe it.

Christmas makes me ache.
"Just remember, the true spirit of Christmas lies in your heart."
But my heart is tired.

And still: "If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love is actually all around."

I collect these words.
I stitch them into my ribs.
I wear them like armor.

"Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary."

Even if extraordinary just means getting out of bed.
Even if it means writing this instead of growing wings today.

"Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to."

I believe.
In words. In love. In fragile mornings.
In friends who might send a quote when you need it.

I believe.
In surviving.

"It’s what you do right now that makes a difference."

So here I am.
And here you are.
Still reading.
Still here.

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."
But for tonight, this tiny raft of words will do.

Hold on.

"Just keep swimming.

by Onnaya 🕊