Passion Project

by London Sperry

I don’t make good first impressions. I get tongue-tied and awkward, and usually I can’t think of a single thing to say no matter how far back into my brain I dig. It’s like all the words in my vocabulary fall out of my ears and my personality gets flattened into a pancake.

It’s like my grief has tethered me to myself, the walls of sadness like shrink-wrap surrounding all sides of me until I can barely breathe. Any movement I make, any step forward or back, is too painful. The smaller and smaller my world becomes, the more daunting it is to try to move out of the hurt. I feel close to Sam in my grief. It’s the only thing I have left of him.

I want to be this Bennet, the clean one, because the more trash you accept in your life, the more you feel like you deserve it.

“You’ve been pouring water over your matches to keep them in perfect order because fire is scary and you can get burned, but matches don’t want to be wet, they want to be on fire. All it takes is one thing to happen, one tiny match gets lit, and it’s like a domino effect, lighting all the other matches. All you have to do is light that first match.”

You showed me love doesn’t care about whether or not you have your shit together, or if you’re a grieving mess. Love doesn’t care if you’re anxious or depressed or drowning in everyday life. Love just loves.