I can listen to a sad song, think of an old memory, or just glance at something that moves me and break into tears for no reason at all.
It’s weird how the saddest moments in my life can be some of my favorite because I get to feel something and remember that I’m human.
I’ve become so numb, so focused on the destination that I’ve forgotten to enjoy the journey; forgotten how to feel anything. I spend so much time pretending to be strong, that it’s those moments when I get to break down and be vulnerable that make me feel alive.
Sometimes I think I’m addicted to the pain which is why I’m always drawn to broken people whom I know will hurt me.
There have been rare moments, though, when one of these broken souls has moved mountains in me instantly—I found them hiding in parts of myself I’d long forgotten existed. And, like a drug, I yearned for more.
They were so pure, so gentle, so beautiful, so addictive, and they didn’t even know it. But in that very moment, I chose to leave, perhaps because I was scared; I was scared I would destroy them. I left so I could remember them just as they were, perfectly imperfect.
Broken people are the strongest people I know. Their pain is so beautiful to me. I absorb it, and, like painting on a blank canvas, I transform it into art.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy with myself. I am so happy because I have found serenity in my pain. It moves me, it inspires me, and it’s all I know. I’ve found strength in grieving people who are still alive, in handing out kindnesses to those who may not deserve it, in forgiving those who’ve hurt me without expecting an apology.
It is being honest about my pain that makes me invincible.