an honest letter to the anxious

or: a letter to my best friend, whom i love dearly but can’t fight your battles for

 

hello. you smart boy.

if you were a tarot card, you’d be the hermit. holed up in your den of knowledge, remembering a long scroll of the past, all energies sworling on your mind. what if i fail, what if it’s not perfect, what if it all doesn’t all hold up? and the

you forgot to say: i love you. i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you.i love the way you love, the way you see the world,  i love your thirst to learn and enthusiasm.

That the only time you don’t shut yourself up or stop yourself from being excellent is when you find something that you’re too good at, that you like so much,

you can’t help it

 

–

i remember the time when you talked about the wonders of story making in DND and this NPC a party managed to care about. a non playable character with barely a line that people ended up crying about. i joked that ‘What if life is the ultimate open world game?’ full graphics , extra sensory display, infinite sidequests. there are no rules. the only main goal would be is to slowly realize that you were making the game as you went, and that the only boss battle is discovering you were the dungeon master. DM

you didn’t answer me for a while. and said you’d rather be just an NPC, but an endearing one, at least people wouldn’t forget.

you grew up with a poltergeist in your house, and emotionally abusive parents. a closed, too christian faith, an almost too psychic family. the paranormal was your backyard, clothes floated and dwarves stole your earphones.

 

you comforted me the whole time i got shocked to being new to this, you made me feel normal, with how versed you are with  personal experience and historical references. you love the celts. you told me to leave chocolates for the fae, and they’re still on the shelf.

 

——

 

i see your aura, weakened. your crown chakra clogged with too much remembering, so much baggage. you are loyal to your friends. you know how to do curses. you cringe about honing in your psychic abilities, your guides just kinda JUMP at you, and you keep taking one step forward and two steps back – was that a real vision? that ball of red thing in the bus merged at my chest???

no way can that be good I DONT LIKE THESE DREAM/PORTAL DOWNLOADS, i KEEP REMEMBERING SHIT I BURIEdHATE. and you chicken out.

you easily lucid dream, but only change the angle of the camera.

i wish i could consecrate your dorm room for you. set up a grid , a sanctum, clean up your aura. rebuild it’s too porous walls. help you cut ties, give you a white shield of light for every time you walk in a classroom and hellweek and your body just attrains to the whorling of stress and you feel sick to your stomach. i wish i could be there with you. i wish i could cage you for one night and force yourself to breathe in a safe bubble of a space that supports. but you keep going out wounded, looking to fight.

you’re curious

but you say you’re not — that important.

 

——–

you’re most beautiful when you’re hungry for the fight.

when you rend reality with your mind, for you to win a beer pong match.

because it’s your birthday, and you’re shot drunk that you flood me with 3am messages about how, once,

you didn’t recognize your own rendition of a song, and how you said oh hey that sounds pretty, the toning is not excessive and the-

          and the choir leader said yeah, we’re using that arrangement.

          and uh. that was you.

 

 

in those rare moments, that you admit you’re not just a great editor but a great writer. and you will be writing the next, funny YA urban fantasy books. you’re blood is already steeped in the pages. and i feel my smile creeping on my face.

dear god. this is you.

don’t you trust me not to lie to you ?

this is you.

—throw out your inner acid, the inner critic. you’ve already beyond sharpened the sword

 

 

it’s time for NPC, to write himself into a hero.

 

i’m in a blog. cheering for you.

 

 

 

 

maalia