"Tupac died at 25. If Malcolm X died at 25 he would have been a street hustler named Detroit Red. If Martin Luther King died at 25 he would’ve been known as a local baptist preacher. And if I had died at 25 I would’ve been known as a struggling musician. Only a sliver of my life’s potential."

Quincy Jones (via uzowuru)

(Source: sunflobrwn, via phantomofthechakras)

The way I had wanted to treat him and the way I could; the way I had affected how I could by wanting, so deeply it swallowed my words and the will to act; the way that I should, as coloured by many who had lived & spoken before, the rules that eternally dictated how a love was to be formed; The way that there were so many possibilities for these treatments of his kind drew our starving premature love to a standstill.

There were no spaces in our mind for the possibilities of the unknown, the rich, luxurious loves written in fairy tales characterised by knights on horseback and jewelled princesses who waited patiently and actually received. Every thought in our story had been previously premeditated, calculated meticulously, drawn from the many detailed and rigid propositions of someone’s past reality dominated by cloak & dagger politics and a love only of self and temptations. But this time, in this critical moment of present time, whereby the minutes had opened up and offered the two of us, just us here now, a chance for change, that so critical golden second that gleaned so eagerly to be used between us like the beauty of sunrise screaming to be captured, adored, cherished, we were propositioned with so much more, so much time to recreate unimaginable possibilities for the love the two of us possessed and that opportunity drowned: sunken sad and hollow in the midst of our ignorance, our inability to make light of a time free of restraint and open to all the potential of a loving so kind and tender, but weak, we turned and faced away. Closed the doors of our imagination and said goodbye to wishes of a potent love that had the power to permeate cancerous blood streams, transcend the dryness of a deserts inclination to salty Saharan temperament, to cultivate a thousand windstorms in the deepest darkest sea, that could slaughter a thousand men stealing their lives pushing and holding them under layers and layers of tumultuous waves. We refused.
Our powers waived by our sullen, uninformed rejection, released to the relentless dark of the night and our love was swallowed whole in those moments so thoughtlessly given up on by us. You see for one thing to survive at any given time another must drown. The consistency of life, the reality of breath and being alive relied upon the ebb and flow of death and dying. Carved out in the landscape of what we knew only to be our love, was the constant need for death and rejection. Displacement and the process of remaking puzzles, finding places for things and people to fit was the name of the game for life. For one thing to be taken under was to create a space for another to be risen, but in our angst and failure to perceive what occurred besides our own existence, we failed to see that in any given moment, at any given time, we could be swallowed in our parts out of our own choice to refuse to stay and fight for our love and the elements that we so fervently believed and knew to have composed it.
What made us so weak to define our own destiny, protected by the presence of infinite power, we asked ourselves plenty of times. Though the question was never presented so clear in words as in any of our daily interactions, other than in that of love, it was pertinent and persistent and we always managed, somehow knowingly,  to turn the other cheek, to retract ourselves from the question posed and to rotate effortlessly to face another trivial issue of the day that stood brazen on our to do list, as though we were constantly being challenged by ourselves to choose the right task for the day, to pick the difficult but critical question that needed to be tackled. And yet we never did it. It was our right to ask ourselves how we ended up so powerless even in love, the greatest sweetest, most sought after chokehold of them all, but we never addressed it and so we were never embraced by the truly warm crevices of loves arms or emboldened by the universal touch we dreamt of, so full of a spirit hard to touch, like a blazing fire, and a deftness with regards to the shaping of a life that we so desperately dreamt we should live.