Precious

When my cousin was younger, he would ask me if my possessions were 'precious'. He though that precious meant fragile. Valuable too, but in his mind mostly fragile. Diamonds are a precious stone. There are very few things on this earth harder than diamond.

We are all such fragile creatures. Made of breakable flesh and a mind that dies with it. Only the soul, whatever that is, lives on in the aftermath of our deaths.

You are precious to me. Wholly and completely I care for you without compromise. I fear your loss like I fear that the sun will not rise in the morning. A fine being built of only good intent.

Regardless of my non compromising love for you, I am only made and powered by my hate for my self and all my kind, a bitter shell of a being. My loathing gets me up in the morning, the idea that I will one day be sated, and apologized to. We meet a no point in the lines.

Despite my knowledge of this, I reject the idea that I am without use to the world. I reject the idea that I am without use to you and without positive attributes. Few enough see the world as I do. Perhaps you could one day learn to love this difference.

Until then I am as always disappointed, disillusioned and dissatisfied but content with my lot and the all too brief rays of sun that pierce the thunderheads.

I am always waiting for you, like a statue exposed to the elements I wait. But not in any kind of hope, for that emotion is alien to my nature. Only the wait that one has when walking and watching clouds, waiting to see what shape they shall take.

One day I shall have my satisfaction. You shall not provide it I highly doubt, but on that day as I clutch my still warm and beating prize, my mind shall bring to the fore a picture of you.

All I am precious island, is the writer. You are the words.

Location: My bedroom