A letter to my 23-year-old self

I think I am slowly and slowly understanding this business of living. As I grow old, I am getting more and more grateful for the learnings I earned from all the suffering, pain, and interminable hurt. Though I would still falter from giving you a clear-cut answer to if it's all been worth it, I think I am close enough to understand when they said that after a certain point of time, life becomes more of a habit. 

I am finding joy in the small things of life. For instance, rain now is not a nostalgic reminder of anything nor it is a welcome excuse for tears shed in exchange of a Pandora's Box of curses. It is just the rain. It dances in its own tune and I praise her for being just her form, her skeleton. Despite the rage that has me distraught sometimes, I believe I am turning into a more and more forgiving person. 

I have certain peculiarities that make me, me. So, this time, if I say I do not have it in me, I might as well mean it. Last summer, my girl roamed all around the town to find me a perfect colored rose as I am over reds and to that I mean, there is no other fairytale, no higher state of emotion I desire. 

If you are reading this which I know you are, yes I am writing to you. You are a born philanderer, so while you maintain that, you should also know what your heart is capable of. Your battered heart dear, can only and only be remedied by love. If youth fools you otherwise, know that it is making you crawl into beds that themselves did not know they are also supposed to embrace you in peace while they are burning your passion out.