This post was originally drafted in November of 2019.
My writing is inadequate and I’m aware of it. And yet, I have no idea what to do about this, or if anything needs to be done at all.
I write daily because I hope words will flow more easily than they have been lately. There are big feelings that need to be released more often than not.
There were, anyway. Lately, I’m happier suppressing them.
The big feelings are the ones about romance I’ve written about previously. They are the ones about having given up hope. They are the feelings that romance is not something that is likely for me.
What I haven’t tapped into yet are the feelings I have about those thoughts. The feeling as though someone is reaching into my chest and crushing my insides. What is inside me is no longer free and alive. It is restricted, held captive.
For now, I am okay with this. I have so much el
No. None of what I was about to write is true. I do not feel chipper and optimistic. I am not satisfied with all the other things going on in my life.
And, frankly, I don’t want to be.
I don’t want to be okay with feeling as though romance is an impossibility. And I think as long as I have that, it means I still have some fight in me.
It means I haven’t given up hope. I haven’t resigned myself to a life without romance.
Someday, my prince will come.
I still believe.