Ha, you know what? I almost started listing the tragedies I’ve been through. I really did. I put my fingers on the keys and everything. But then I realized: I am bored by this. I’m bored by you, anon, who thinks that you have to bleed to earn belief, as though—as though humanity beating you black and blue somehow makes your love for them more valid. As though it’s requisite. As though you have to deserve it, or they have to deserve it. As though there is any way to bridge the gap between what we are and what we should be but a terrifying leap, and hoping that there is grace in this universe.
The idea of perfection exists despite the physical reality of entropy and I don’t actually care, whether you think my personal tragedies have won me the right to believe humanity is good. I believe anyway. We are deserving of more than we are given, than we make. We deserve perfect justice, and perfect kindness, and perfect love. Else, on what grounds will we ever make ourselves better? How will we eradicate violence and hate and perversion and oppression from this world, unless we say to any and all who will listen, there is something about us that makes such actions unworthy. There is something about humanity that demands better than this; that asks us to lift our gaze to the horizon and strive.
The world is cruel enough on its own to know that. Whether I have undergone personal trials in order to lay claim to such an ideology is, quite frankly, none of your business.
You’re boring, I’m bored. New balls.
in fragile language is OK,
from “Lil Emoji” by