There is a world inside of you that I didn’t even know existed. You are insane — you are actually psychotic. You’ve beaten people to the brink of death with no regrets because they offended you. You’re fucking scary. And I love you.
You’ve hurt me a little. But you tore this veil from my eyes without even meaning to. I understand the world a bit better because of you. There’s a tornado inside you between your passion and your depression. Look, don’t let that kill you. Let it bring you alive. You can change the world. You changed me.
I feel your presence even in my sleep, in my subconscious. You’re chaotic and unpredictable and hard to handle. I’m a little jealous of you. But that’s fucking horrible, isn’t it? That’s horrible because why would I want to be schizophrenic with attenuated psychosis and PTSD and chronic depression? I don’t want those, no. But I wish I had your charm, your wit, your allure, your pretty mystery.
I’ll never have it. But that’s okay. I’ll experience it secondhand for the rest of my life, because I love you. I love you.