Open Letter #2


The moment I realized I was special, I had already been special for 20 years. It was a delayed realization, of course, and it came to me when my trauma started to fade into the background.

My father was dead, yes, and somehow I was still alive after many thoughts of not being that way. I could still smile, yes, and still wake up and move about my house. I wasn’t broken anymore, no, I was stronger and it felt as though my muscles were no longer sore.

The moment I realized I was special, I was sitting down just about to get up. It came to me somewhere in between the thought of the future and recollection of the past. Suddenly, I could see the future again and I could put those images alongside ones of the past and the former wouldn’t fade away. I was dreaming again.

The moment I realized I was special, I noted that people were now bound to tell me otherwise. And they would do so for no reason other than to make themselves feel better. People will fill patches in you when you’re down, and then suddenly, the moment your patches are covered and colourful they’ll try to rip through your stitching.

Though, your muscles will be ready and stronger than ever, and you’ll have an unlimited supply of patches prepared to cover the pinpricks those people give you.



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