I don’t really know when it started. I surmise it was whenever a soul becomes a soul within a mother’s womb. Or if it was after birth and the arrival on earth. Or if it was whenever the heart’s awareness of all others’ hearts became clarified. Or perhaps it was simply the first time my eyes met themselves in a reflection.
I can only guess that it had to have started prior to my ability to deny it. What I know for sure is that it started prior to the human ability to function in such a way that decisions were possible and personality traits were blueprinted.
If it had been a choice, I’d have rectified every inch of it and its presence inside of me. Atop my thin, fragile, and translucent skin, I’d have transplanted the very thickest available and attached it to the deepest roots of my body—into the center of my bone’s marrow.
I’d have bullied my heart to never take a thing to it, no matter how much the faucets of my eyes begged to pour tears from them. Then I’d lecture my eyes themselves and remind them that it is possible that their own interpretation of everything in all of time is what has made tears flood damlessly; that their interpretation created constant lumps in a throat that needed to speak up. I’d compile a study guide with flashcards and exhibitions and galleries, too, if it meant that I could sway away the way I became exactly the way that I am: obsessed with mastering such a specialty
But it wasn’t a choice. It still isn’t. It never will be. So, I’m at a crossroads. Well, that’s what they call it. What I’m really at is just the point of acceptance. But will I accept the acknowledgement acceptance deserves?
Yes. I think so.
Things have always mattered because somewhere every single everything matters to someone or something else and that’s enough for me.
Things have always meant what they should mean because everything inside me sees what you don’t see, and since this was never a choice, isn’t it simply a natural ability? Perhaps even a god-given gift.
Things will always matter exactly as they should.