Be A Good Soul.

I sometimes worry that I'm the only pure heart on earth. Imagine, a humanistic misanthrope with a pure heart. It's a constant internal struggle that nobody sees, nobody knows, nobody cares. I don't talk about it...ever...because it's so unbelievably far beyond most mortal souls that I've encountered that the very thought of conversing about it is physically and emotionally exhausting. To constantly love and loathe everyone you see all at the same time is draining enough, but imagine the absolute depth of constantly loving and loathing everyone AND everything you see all at the same time. To call it awful would be an affront to language and literature and diction and grammar and any and all things of that nature; awful is nowhere near awful enough.

I constantly, every waking moment, can see human auras. Their color, how brightly they burn. How passionate or lackluster, and also how genuine or sinister. I constantly see the beautiful, magical watercolor portraits of people, and I constantly see the wretched, vile, crawling things about them. Simultaneously. It is terrifying. It's a gift that I'd never trade for anything. It's a precious, priceless little curse I've been saddled with.

I am different. Anyone who knows me will tell you so.

I want so much for you to be the exception to the terrible rule. I think some of you are. It gives me such hope...you give me such hope. But so many of you are not, and herein lies my own personal problem. I'm trapped in an infinite loop, pulling for you, pushing for you, internally, silently pleading with you to do the right thing in that one moment, the one that really mattered--mattered to you, mattered to someone--so imagine my constant, unending heartbreak when you don't, followed by a bit of self-chastisement for believing in you at all, even an iota. For being unable to turn to stone.

I am no exception; I implore you, know with certainty that the kid is not exempt. Pompous, I am not. I keep in touch with my glaring imperfections. Their collect calls are not to be ignored. I pick myself apart in ways you can't imagine; I explore places within my own personal hell where angels fear to tread. But at my very center, the innermost part of my life force, is a pin prick of light. I search frantically, every single moment, for the pin prick of light in you. It's easy to find in so few of you. Too few. Too few of us. Us.

I don't really sleep well all the time. I guess nobody sleeps well ALL the time...

Sometimes, I'm pleasantly surprised by what I see. Sometimes I feel such warmth. It feels like the summer sunlight of 1998, in a bikini on a rock near the water at Patty's Hole, laughing, surrounded by friends after drinking St. Ives Special Brew. Perfect. I cherish every single fleeting moment of your warmth and love and light. I collect them in a bejeweled box and I draw on them when my own morale is low. I remember your smiles, the beautiful way you've made me feel, the things you've done to restore, if partially, my faith in humanity.  I've also got a picturesque memory, complete with panoramic views and high definition perception.

That memory of mine...it hurts so much sometimes.