To the Me Who Was

To the Me who Was.

You’re fucking insane. In a good way.

You never believed in yourself, but you went for it anyway. You thought you had to prove that you were something. You couldn’t accept that you were enough, because you thought you were too quiet and shy, forgettable, invisible, not man enough. You were ashamed of being delicate. You were ashamed that you couldn’t be like the athletic, handsome boys. You wanted them to accept you. And you knew you couldn’t get that from being like them.

So you took the things you loved—the artistic things—the borderline girly things—and you said, I will excel at these. I will excel so hard, that I will be enough, using the things I can. And imagination. Creation. They were ways to build worlds. Worlds where you could be enough. Worlds that abided by your rules. Worlds you could live through. Where, for a little while, you could be that handsome boy. You could love him.

But you never quite believed your own fantasy.

And you tried so hard. And it hurt so much. It hurt that you couldn’t be what you wanted to be. Or what you thought you wanted to be. But you were.

You were amazing. Fucking mental. But amazing. Religion had a chokehold on your pride. Not allowed, pride. Not allowed, ambition. But I can see, looking back, how great you really were. You worked five days a week for most of the year, and you went to church on Sunday, and Friday night volleyball games with the youth. And yet somehow, you wrote, edited, formatted, and.published six books in as many years. With a seventh rough draft. So many short stories, so much extra time and effort dedicated to marketing those books. Those works of art. You worked so damn fucking hard. And no one noticed. And that killed you. Because you wanted to be amazing. And you were. But only a few people noticed, and none of those people were you.

But fuck off, man. Seven books in seven years. At least a 100,000 words each. And the book signing events—though disheartening at times because no one came—the conventions and excessive extra projects. Who else hand creates costumes based on their books to wear to conventions and signings? Who else has a catalogue of their own drawings and paintings to flesh out their book worlds? Who the fuck else does all of this amazing shit?

Very few, if anyone. Besides you.

You made video projects, drawings, paintings, so many things.

Now you’re tired. You’re not dead. You’re sleeping.

And maybe one day, you’ll wake up again, and you’ll know how great you are. Maybe that’s all you really needed: a little love. From yourself. So here: I love you. I love everything you did. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you then.

When you’re ready to awaken, when you’re ready to come back, I’ll be here, ready to love you at last. For all you did, but more importantly, just for who you are.

Maybe, all along, you were really the muse.

And its a little fucked up that I have to disassociate from myself to love me. I can love another me. I can be proud of someone else. I can embrace another person and enshrine them as a muse. But not myself. Another me. That person. Who I was. What I can be. But not this, right here.

We’re taught to be afraid of ourselves. We’re taught that pride and vanity are the worst sins. We’re scared to death to love ourselves, because what if we are narcissists? We’re taught that loving ourselves is bad. But maybe we’re missing the point of the myth of Narcissus? What if we’re holding ourselves back.

Why don’t we want to become flowers?

I want to become a flower—no—stop it—I am a flower.

I always was and I am and I will be.

I am that I am: god in man as a flower.

Deus ex flore

Be