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At first your breath on my neck feels foreign, and in half sleep i am threatened. It takes a second to remember to not be afraid. I pull your arm tighter around my waist and drift off. And i am not afraid.
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I have always been a scribble ever since I could remember. I stopped somewhere in between being a kid, a rebelling teen, a wife, a mother and a divorcee. Everything, from truth to lust, from lust to love, from love to hate is when I start to take scribbling more serious. Fiction and non-fiction. What I'm feeling and what I wish to feel. Through words, I'm trying to understand life in so many different perspectives and angles.
Call me hopeless romantic, but feelings are the most difficult theme for me to write about. It has always been. Until one day I fell. deeply. deeply in love with a perfect stranger. The shortest love story yet the most intense feeling I've ever experienced. I was terrified at first, too scared to expose my own feelings, but my bravery won. I dared myself to write instead of just scribbling and our short love story was the spunk to put my every feelings into word. I let myself streaming down into this river of words, pages after pages of my journal. There's no lies, pages of honesty, sincerity, integrity, candor and simplicity of a heart and mind. The words never stop itself from filling every new empty pages, even after the love he once had for me fade as if I am just an idea to him, a faded idea, and we're back to strangers. But the love that gave me courage to write remains.
The words never stop, I never stop, ideas never stop because everything in live is truly inspiring.
And then one day, I lost the journal to my clumsiness. That is when I lost the ability to write, as if I lost a part of me. I shall stop and put down my pen because now, me and words, we become stranger.
Call me hopeless romantic, but feelings are the most difficult theme for me to write about. It has always been. Until one day I fell. deeply. deeply in love with a perfect stranger. The shortest love story yet the most intense feeling I've ever experienced. I was terrified at first, too scared to expose my own feelings, but my bravery won. I dared myself to write instead of just scribbling and our short love story was the spunk to put my every feelings into word. I let myself streaming down into this river of words, pages after pages of my journal. There's no lies, pages of honesty, sincerity, integrity, candor and simplicity of a heart and mind. The words never stop itself from filling every new empty pages, even after the love he once had for me fade as if I am just an idea to him, a faded idea, and we're back to strangers. But the love that gave me courage to write remains.
The words never stop, I never stop, ideas never stop because everything in live is truly inspiring.
And then one day, I lost the journal to my clumsiness. That is when I lost the ability to write, as if I lost a part of me. I shall stop and put down my pen because now, me and words, we become stranger.
Maybe I'm just being too emotional, sentimental, or dramatic. But losing my journal hits me hard. Its like I'm losing a part of me. Those pages after pages of nonsense is my past, my memories, words after words made me of who I am today.
Oh, how I love to re-read what has been wrote just to keep myself on track every time the tides of oblivion strikes.
This is tragic ....
Oh, how I love to re-read what has been wrote just to keep myself on track every time the tides of oblivion strikes.
This is tragic ....
Sometimes acceptance is a slow burn. Being forced to acknowledge and understand that what you want to do in life is unattainable.
Not giving up, but respecting limitations and boundaries. Perhaps there are things one could change about their situation or self to effect a small change in their world, though it may not be the splash one wanted or needed.
Oddest for me though, is where these thoughts are coming from. Normally they are the product of depression and desperation, an unwillingness to accept what may come causing a deep hatred for what is.
This time they’re coming from a good place. A mindset where I know I can be happy with the things that aren’t what I want if I so choose, even if I’m aware that there will always be something missing, a tiny void of what-could-have-been.
And so I continue the arduous process of remaking and reshaping myself and my world-view. Here’s to the best. Ever upward!
