A lot has been on my mind lately. I have written fragments of things in different notebooks and I haven't been able to put them together into something that makes sense. So, here is is something that has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time. Who knows if anyone will read this, who knows if it makes sense.
All I know is that I miss this class. I miss the writers. I miss being inspired by all of you.
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In all honesty, love makes me sick.
Love is a roller coaster that has worked several times before, but broke down the first time I got on.
Don't get me wrong, when I think I've found love, it feels good. Key word: think. Truth is, I've never found love. Come close? Maybe, but I've never found love completely.
I think love makes me feel like I'm floating, and gravity makes me sick. My stomach twists into large, obnoxious knots and I curse my self for believing I could float, for believing I could fly away.
Love makes my head hurt. Why? "It's complicated," I'll say. Because it is complicated. It's a lot of things, really.
I sleep with pens and notebooks in my bed because words strung on lined paper are better than humans.
No one has ever tried to hold my hand. That is, no one except for my inky black pen, pleading for me to join him on his adventures.
I would much rather see life from the tip of a pen than through a microscope because a microscope can only see my veins, but ink can run through my veins. And the blood and the ink run to my heart and they both know what my heart feels.
I'll take writing over love any day.
But then, what is writing without love?
So I guess I'll write with love, broken or perfect, and hope that my words will never leave me.
Maybe. Maybe that is love.
