Despite my orientation toward silence, solidarity and the safety of hiding under the yellow duvet that covers my bed, I love the gift of life. I love the complexities of the human spirit and the brazen magic of the will to live.
You are a miracle. Because of (not despite) your broken, wretched flaws and your tattered conscience.
Your miraculous life reminds me that I too can make miracles. Because you move mountains with broken arms, I know that my heart can bear another break. The twisted humor we share gives me the love I need to remain foolish and brave.
Love y’all. Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks for staying in the struggle. For getting up again and again despite the failures and invitations to live quiet and paralyzed.
Love is a verb. It gives life to you just as you are, without condition or pretense. I just want you to know that your existence, no matter how many regrets you have, enriches mine.
Keep living and doing and trying and giving yourself to this world. Despite the outcome.
I love that shit.