When I’m 122 years old, I will not be apologetic anymore.
I will stop being apologetic for caring more for the happiness I find in sunshine than in the pain of a hurricane than will one day destroy the world.
I am heartless, I am told.
With such poetry, I am to choose between my fears and my hope. I bleed with all the anger and hatred my exiles have nurtured me with and pour, gracefully, of course, to my feet for your dreams to come alive.
I will stop being apologetic about crying for the miniscule lives that live within me, so I can resurrect your lost castles and empty dungeons. They have no promises for you, or for me, but I will love their cellars like they are my only home.
I will stop being apologetic about your incapability to hear my screaming, the rape of every one of my nightmares you bring to life with your magic wand, and my not being able to tell you to stop because I choke with fear that you will think me a child.
I will stop being apologetic, when I am 122 years of age, because I will be back in my exiles, which have nurtured me with hate, distrust and crimson anger. I will bask in the familiarity of the burning sun on my pale dead skin and I will cry out loud because you can finally not hear me.
I will stop being apologetic for wanting to give, provided I don’t grow shapeless from giving,
Wanting to live, provided I am not waiting for death,
Wanting to love, provided I can retain my pride,
Wanting to dream, provided I can choose to remember or forget them,
Wanting to cry, provided I don’t have to stop
Wanting to laugh, provided I have no reason
Wanting to make a choice, provided you need no explanation.
When I am 122 years old, I will stop being apologetic for being ordinary and for loving my invisibility.
99 years will pass soon.