I kind of want to cry.
I'm just another mortal chasing eternal life, hoping the things I do will matter---to someone, for something, regardless of the circumstance of achieving it.
At last I am willing to admit why I write, why writing is just so damn important. I couldn't understand it before, rather, I didn't want to. I didn't want to admit to being so selfish.
I can't bare to be forgotten. Witness my existence and tell me I am real. Tell me this sac of flesh bone and water was something.
I want my life to matter, and I say it so often so that I force you to believe me; so that I force this thought so thoroughly into the Universe's stream of consciousness that it can't be overlooked. Please, do not overlook me. I am a beating body, a string of intangible thought, a shallow girl with open heart and broken hands. In my clumsy haste, I hope to win you over.
I choose love for immortality. I choose you because you're lovely, because you're lonely and broken and beautiful.
Do I love you because you're valuable, or are you valuable because I love you? Philosophers have attempted to dissect this question in every which way conceivable to man. I give you my feeble thoughts here:
You are valuable because I love you. Those intrinsic qualities and characteristics which I adore and hold to esteem would be nothing without you. Because they belong to you, you who are different from all others, these virtues are relevant. You are valuable because I've tamed you. The time and experiences we've had together, the struggle to find love over loneliness, has made you the only you there will ever be. You are valuable because you are to me, what no one else in the world could ever hope to be. You are something. You have always been something. You will always be something. Because I, too, am tamed.