My life has been an accumulation of engraved lessons, left lingering along the curvatures of my being. Written stories left behind by the scarred stars of all the persons I used to be in the lifetimes before this, before I was branded Julie and before I existed; before I aged into the twenty-two-too-eager years of this—I was once this same soul, maybe a little less wise and a little more bruised but I’ve always existed. A fascinated, curious, and altruistic lover. Isn’t that wonderful? To be but a flower to bloom, to wither away, but to always carry the scent of the same rose. My greatest teacher has always been Time, a patient and kind confidant. One who often took things from me, only to restore a new sense of bliss in all the corners left ignored by my own obliviousness. I didn’t know then what I know now. I couldn’t carry faith the way I do because I was too young and too impatient, until I met the epitome of patience and faith itself in the form of a woman I’ve grown to love. In her, I learned of tragedy. In her I learned of poetry and silence, in wicked games of mind fucks to fucked up minds. But I learned of faith in her quiet demeanor despite her shrilling influence of self-destroyed desire.
I became better.
I became weaker just to understand what it takes to be a million times stronger than I could have ever imagined, even in the weakened stance of depleted hopes of what I know can never come. Yet I found contentment in the acceptance of all that is soon to prevail.
I’ll never love the same again, my heart whispers.
That much is true. I’ll be ten times more wise, a hundred more too tired to allow the monstrosity to consume the beauty of faith. I discovered time in the crevices of my thievery. We wanted to steal what could never be controlled and therefore distance settled in between and began to push the gap that now exists and it’s okay, it was meant to happen. Whether or not I lose you, maktub—love. Maktub.