I want to live.
“What do you call life?”
Following down the path I know I’m meant to follow,
Touching the soul of people and their hearts,
To see and serve the world around me in my own special way,
To love and be loved, truly loved,
To make my life a story worth telling,
I don’t know how long I’ll be here,
I don’t know who I will meet, or what I will do,
but I know that for me to live, I have to be who I am.
I have to be here to make the world a better place,
I have to share all this love in me with the world.
I have to learn and be taught,
I have to search and be found,
I have to know that even though I will have dark moments in my life… I will stand tall again.
To live… is to be.
I can’t be for everyone,
I don’t want to be for anyone,
Because I can only be for myself.
I can only decide what I want in my life.
I want to spread what I feel,
I want to make people happy and inspired and fulfilled,
but I don’t want to do that by being their happiness or their inspiration or fulfillment.
I want to somehow, be it through music, stories, or words, I want to somehow show the world how to be happy.
Because people have this… misconception that you need things to be happy, that you need love to be happy, that you need something outside of yourself to be happy.
What am I here for?
Why would I live for myself and myself only?
I don’t have a future planned out for me like an animal.
I’m not kept in a cage or locked in a cell to only be let out when allowed,
I may be told what to do or who to be… but I know I should be me.
That is to live,
To be who you are independent of the world,
To help the world, even though the world isn’t really asking for my help,
To be there, to make a difference, to show people what it is to be happy,
To live, is different than to survive,
To live isn’t to have a “good enough” house with a “good enough” partner and a “good enough” family with a “good enough” amount of things.
I’m not here to survive.
I’m not here for bare essentials.
Why should I stop on the first floor if there are still stairs leading me to the roof?
Why should I stop on the roof when there are wings, buried deep inside my soul, waiting for me to know how to let them free so I can fly?
If my life isn’t worth telling, can I really call it a life worth living?