"When the cracks on my bedroom ceiling give me this empty bottle feeling I think it's time to repaint. It's time to repaint myself."
Empty Bottle: Ingrid Michaelson
I'm tired of writing about the same things. About him, about us.
It all has gotten so boring; and I'm running out of steam.
Things are falling into place.
I am accepting things, and learning to love them
though it's hard and at times takes all of my energy.
But I have decided to embrace life. To love the things I can't change, and change the things I can.
And I'm learning more about myself as I go along.
He does not define me; yet I let him at times.
He is a part of me in no other way anything else can be, and there he will stay,
but it has lessened, and perhaps it won't be so overwhelming.
It all doesn't make sense to me anymore.
I do not know which way is up, and which way is down
but I am okay.
I am soaking up this confusion, breathing it all in, letting it fill my entire body.
Allowing my heart to feel it, to run it through my veins.
Cleaning out all the mud that has collected there over time.
He will come back as he so often does. And perhaps the darkness will return, but I am capturing this sunshine; putting it in my pocket for a rainy day.
And perhaps I may find myself inside all of the mess; picking up the pieces, putting them back together again.
And maybe something wonderful is coming, something magical. I can feel it deep in my bones, taste it on my tongue.
Thank you all for your comments in the last post. They bring something to me; hope, the reality that I am not alone. You all are so wonderful, to me. I find it odd and phenomenal at times how we can find our best friends here on blogger. We read each others secretly deep words and feelings and fall in love with them, sometimes not realizing we know more about them then their closest friends do because of it. It is such a tragically big, beautiful, and sometimes small world. And maybe I am even in love with it.
A: I have thought about it. About writing for the others, for me, for the world to see. I think about it often...I'm scared I suppose. Do I even have what it takes? Really though, writing is sitting down with a pen and paper and bleeding...I can do that. But will they accept it? I do not know.
You all are magical, little fairies flying about my days.
I love you.
Know that you are in my heart, and I'm thinking of you. <3