I’ve been typing and eagerly erasing all that I’ve typed in the past hour or so. I am certain there is a story I need to pen, a story about…love? I am more certain I have to write about it now.
But words seem lacking. I cannot find the lines, cannot see sense with the string of letters I have allowed my heart to be tied around with. I’m certain the story will still speak of my past, in hazes, for that’s all there is to it now, blurs and shadows.
I’m also more sure that it will manifest my current distaste of being in a relationship. Distaste seems more fitting a word over disbelief. Because distaste implies I may someday want to try being in a relationship again while disbelief would mean I am done with love; that I’ve given up on wanting to be with another human being again.
I’m also very, very certain my story will provide a glimpse of my future with that person who is or will be my “person”. I’m sure it will sound ludicrous and childish. I’m sure it will speak of cotton candy balls and cream puffs, hot air balloon rides and biking in Amsterdam, and bungee jumping in Australia, and ramen-searches in Japan.
I’m sure it will be a long, tedious attempt to reach for the stars and paint the beauty of a moonlight. I’m sure none of the last part would sound normal. Because it’s fantasy. Because it’s shallow. Because I’m selfish, and not ready, still.