I always thought of myself as too frail even before I met you.
My lungs were too worn out from smoking too much that I find it hard to climb stairs and run fairly easy distances without losing my breath.
My gut wasn’t a big fan of heights, it would churn everytime at a sight near them.
And my head? It wasn’t that great too, considering it already endured plenty of hangovers in a lifetime not even closing in on its first half. The headaches were terrible and so was the unbearable dizzy spells the morning after a night spent with too many shots of vodka.
And then I met you.
My lungs were bad enough when you came unexpectedly heaving at my doorway, one look from you was all it took to make me realize I could drown in a single gaze even without a body of water nearby ending up with me begging for air.
It was a blow to my gut when I got to know you. I memorized the favourite words you use and how you oddly hated coffee with milk. I hated heights and my gut started to churn when it realized I started falling for you.
I was hungover every morning I woke up next to you, your arm hung low on my waist, even without shots of vodka the night before. It was enough to send me trotting in the house all day, woozy and out of focus. My head was complaining and I was all in to have more than I could manage.
There’s a fine line differentiating the frail being I was before and the frail being I am now, after meeting you. I used to hate my weaknesses, I used to resent myself for it but it’s so much different now. I learned to love it and I learned to make everything bearable because if being with you means having my bones ache and my insides give up on me, I’d take it, I’d take even more if I need to.
There are those nights, oh those goddamned nights that I’d picture you still beside me, the faint light of the moon pouring from the window spills at the right parts of your face as you sleep ever so calmly; lids fluttering and the dip and rise of your chest with every heavy breath.
Those goddamned nights I’d resent myself why I try to bring you back in imagined spaces you still reside in, long after you’ve left me hanging.
Arctic Monkeys - Esquire Magazine
The secret, I don’t know…I guess you’ve just gotta find something you love to do and then…do it for the rest of your life. For me, it’s going to Rushmore.