The past is such a peculiar thing. Already passé, distant, yet all the more current. I think back a year and a half ago.  I had fallen so deep in this dark, endless black hole of a pit. I was at the end of the road, the final station of this route. My chest contained nothing but a hollow ache. There was nothing more to give and nothing else to receive anymore. It could easily have been the end of it all. But thankfully, I came to and picked myself up again even though it wasn't evident. I sought help. I learnt things about myself that I didn't know about. I learnt how the past had its deep claws on me. Still. And I learnt how to handle them, how to live with them.

 

Suicide is a dark stain that cannot be washed away. Once it has manifested it's forever latched to the back of your head. It becomes part of your identity, like a birthmark. You may forget it's there from time to time. But it's there. Life is so fragile. It hangs on a brittle thread supported by the belief of better days ahead.

 

Then he happened.

 

He has me thinking of brighter days. Not quite in the same way as I did before. I have been my own light for so long. No one ever tells you what an exhausting task it is to try and keep that candle light burning, especially when you're only a child. But here he is, his touch burning like the sun.

 

But it's a terrifying thing being dependent on someone else. Something that is completely unfamiliar to me. It's a vulnerability that very few can afford with, and I'm uncertain if I am one of those lucky ones. I am scared, for the things that can be given can also be easily taken away. 

 

Hayao Miyazaki said that true love is two people inspiring each other to live. Life may be hard and full of suffering - cursed even. Yet you still find a reason to live on. 

 

Some days I am hopeful that maybe I could gather just enough courage to bathe fully in his sunlight and warmth. Maybe some day I could fully accept and embrace him as my inspiration. My reason.