The Prize and a Handful of Pocket Change

Love is complicated.

It makes you breathe faster, it makes your palms sweatier, it makes you hum songs that used to make you sick. There is no bigger high than to feel lips against your lips, a fit of lust, admiration, maybe both. Of course, like all things, it makes even the radio impossible. It makes you wish that you had kept more of a barrier between yourself and the fire.

Retrospect is funny. It’s like your brain catalogued every intimate moment you’ve ever had and presents itself to you in your weakest form. If people claim to have died at the hands of love, I believe it. To watch love die is one thing, but to watch it go up in smoke against your will is entirely another. The kind of sorrow that love brings can only be matched by other chains, other forms of love. Sometimes I think that this is the only thing that can truly hurt us.

To remain upbeat in a world full of starvation and bullets and fire is a feat, especially if you can make it out without the cloak of guilt hanging over you. There are so many questions that need answers, but I often wonder if people would be satisfied with the truth. We create our own realities, tiny images on the big screen of tradition and history. Still, I wonder if there’s more I could have done. I didn’t ask to be born in one of the most beautiful, free countries in the world, so why me? Is there a point in asking this question at all? $3.00 a day seems meager and easy in comparison to what I imagine that those who are caged in their own circumstance might feel, what every day behind their eyes is worth.

On days like today, when I am unsure of my place and my power in the world, I write. I bleed. This is the only outlet I know that welcomes my complete and whole self. This is my sanctuary, my home, and my strength. A word can make all the difference between a beautiful song and a mundane statement. I don’t have a real ending for this post, all I have is my thoughts. I think, for once, that’s enough.

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