“that’s the way it is with dreams. they scratch at your door. you see them through the peep hole: a stray dream looking for a home. you think it might go away if you ignore it. wrong. it’s still there when you open the door, smiling. wagging its tail.”
i keep it next to my bed- one of my most prized gifts. a gift from one of the only people who can see something and match it to me so seamlessly. i read it over and over- i picture my words in its pages:
“this is a space for dream words, flying words, fall down and get up words. get to know the sound of your own inner voice. be creative. be generous. be bold”
i’ve done that. i’ve dreamed and i’ve flown over and under and around what i thought was love. i fell down (hard) and i got up (broken). i got to know my inner voice- i’ve written an old story for all the world to read. i was generous. i was bold. it was limitless. it was mine.
it is my past.
i have three notebooks and i can’t find the courage to write in any of them. i don’t want to put old words, old memories, old lovers inside them. they’ve been saved for a love strong and real. one that won’t need erasing or ripped pages. one i won’t need to hide away in an old shoe box hidden in the basement. one i won’t feel ashamed reading over, and over, and over.
i’m only afraid to start writing about him, because i don’t ever want to stop. how do you start a story that should go on forever? that shouldn’t have an ending? a love that deserves more than a prologue, some content, and an epilogue.
it’s amazing how fast things change, sometimes. how you can feel it in your gut before it even happens… how you know you’re afraid for a reason. i never really wrote much about andy because a part of me felt us drifting the minute we moved into our big, perfect, city house. i’m no longer in contact with the person who gave me the journal- the person who was able to match presents to me so seamlessly. it blows my mind that a friendship so pure could have such a cold, bitter end.
she may think i’m made of stone, and that’s fine. i get that a lot. but when i look back on these memories, or read her postcards, or stumble upon these gifts from her… yes, a part of me misses her. i never thought i’d say that. i miss her and her dumb insecurities and blind naivety on life. i miss her big silly hair and her love letters. i miss our trips out of the city and the way she was the soft to my shock.
but some things are better left broken.
i’m reminded of this so often.