Dear Ms. Sunshine,
It’s ok to let nice things pass you by. Maybe you didn’t deserve it in the first place. You might not be a poet and sometimes you might feel like a poem without words. Maybe you are not worth it.
It’s ok if every time you have your heart broken the first person you blame is yourself. You might have an empty soul. No true emotions inside of you. It might all be just a simple act. Please don’t be surprised if, sometimes, you have the tendency to persiflage. It’s not a proof of insecurity. Sarcasm is the most reliable remedy for unhappiness. Don’t clowns laugh to hide their sadness?
It’s ok to fake kindness and beauty and tenderness.
It’s ok if you lost your power outlet that day and you were never able to reboot.
It’s ok not to let people see sadness in your eyes. It’s your battle, with yourself. Those walls you built are now a fortresses and no one can ever break it. Not even to peak. Not this time. Not anymore. You’re intangible. You are an empty home with a captivating interface and nothing more.
It’s ok to let yourself be used by people who enter you. They can only take what you don’t have anymore. None of the ingredients you used to bake the cake were healthy. You can’t make healthy cakes with a rotten soul.
It’s ok to feel you are a pagan in your own life, a narrow sense.
It’s ok if your aurora is diffuse. You have a featureless glow not visible to the naked eye, even on a dark night. You don’t have a synonym and your antonym is fulfillness.
It’s ok to embrace the feeling that nothing can make you usual. You are wonderfully peculiar and a vague premonition of disaster because you lack shape and meaning.
It’s ok if your novel has empty pages. Characters write themselves with empty words and erase your prose. Open your own “Museum of Innocence”. Make it colorful and bright but when the candle light extinguishes sell it to the highest bidder.
It’s ok if you can’t finish your story with words, it can alter the little divine that might still be inside.