The Few Things

I love books.

As a kid, I knew the library of my hometown as if it were my room. 

Sometimes when I was checking my books, the librarian would pause, hold one up for inspection, and nod saying, “Oh yes, this is a good one,” and I would always feel a warm rush of approval flood through my every pore, seeping so gently into the fibers of my being.

I remember going through a phase where I just read romance novels. I never got over the fact that romance was an actual genre. And the more I read, the more I understood why it was high selling.

You see, I fantasize about being loved and treated kindly by a man.

But the men I fall in love with make fun of this because they think it's just unrealistic.

And as a kid, I can guarantee you that I had a disease called, “I believe I will find the love I have been reading about all these years.” 

When I got older, reading turned into writing.

It’s been the only outlet that I feel safe in. 

It remains concrete, intact, and no one can take it away. Ever. 

Especially when it’s inked on paper. I think I write to not go mad. Or on the contrary to touch the bottom of my madness. 

I get told that I write so beautifully. 

But what people don’t realize is that my mind is such a terrifying place. 

I feel like writing is the only way I can make my insanity sound beautiful. 

I also love hearing what people have to say when they’re sad. 

Not because I find other people’s pain amusing but because I am so fascinated by what we say when our hearts bleed. What a beautiful thing- to listen to what someone has to say, fresh off their hearts beat. I love feelings. It’s the only true courage I have. To feel everything. 

I don’t always act or dare to live out my own decisions but I always experience them emotionally to the fullest. 

I believe I’m obligated to intimately know my fears. It’s the only way I’ll be able to live a joyful life. 

I need to take it on, whatever it may be, and admit to people that I’m scared. I must not just get intimate with my fears but with the fears of the people I love. That’s how I connect. 

I love listening. Not to better myself, and not for fame, but just to understand.

I love the idea of the future- especially mine! 

I can’t wait to have a home. I mostly just hope to welcome people into it. 

There will be fresh flowers on every table and the cookie jar will always be full. 

I’ll say, “I was just about to make tea… would you like some?”

Once the hour hits when guests must depart, I’ll remind them that I’m making cinnamon rolls the next day and that they’re always welcome. I’ll have champagne and sparkling juice hidden on a high shelf just in case somebody announces an engagement, pregnancy, or even just something they’re proud of while in my home. And of course, it will be filled with so much love, so much warmth, and so much tenderness. There will be space to be scared, to be vulnerable, to be held, and heard. There will be laughter, there will be closeness, cooking, and sharing. The table will have food, the door will always be open and there will be touch.  There will be compassion, there will be kindness, and there will be love. 

 It will be love, everyone will be loved, I will be love.