If you were a song, you’d be the one played with violins which echoes around a hall, simply because you don’t believe yourself to be and it would annoy you. You underestimate the power of your own melody: you’d be a bowstring, taught like an archer’s weapon but capable of making the sweetest music, if you would let yourself. You’d be played at the parties of those you hated just to prove a point and I’d laugh, then wonder why I was still listening.
If you were a dance, I’d learn the steps even if I couldn’t dance them: it would be difficult but I’d be willing to try. You’d be the steps to a wedding – the last song they play – because you’d find that strangely ironic. I’d still dance it, the last one standing – or maybe there would be a queue of people in front of me. They could all dance it better but I would still learn as much as I could.
If you were a painting, I wouldn’t be able to see you but I’d have those that could understand describe it to me. Not being able to see you would always set me at a disadvantage because again, it would be another mystery to me, more than you are now. It’s an idea out of reach, a few brushstrokes beyond my comprehension.
If you were a story, I’d be at the point where the plot thickens, never knowing what will happen. Your beginning, middle and end would be filled with plot twists and amazing revelations so that I could never keep up. I’d still read your story or try, no matter if I was discouraged. Complexity never stopped me before but I don’t – I won’t – understand you unless the words, the ideas, become clear to me.
If you were a thought, I wouldn’t feel guilty for thinking about you; I’d embrace it. You’d be that stolen smile at the end of the day, where I wouldn’t feel bad for hoping despite the hopelessness.
Pity that you aren’t.
You’re none of these; you’re just you. You’re neither poetic nor something to be admired: you’re almost like me. I don’t know how to feel about that.
From Elm 🙂