My words were going to be so much different. They were paintings of open fields and open eyes and being both aware of my fear and liberated from it, like the moment right before you jump off a diving board for the first time. They were going to be excited. My words were going to be pleasant. Like a toddler who has found a litter of puppies and just falls into their fur and their kisses and she’s nothing but smiles and giggles. Because puppies never give you a reason to be anything but smiles and giggles. Puppies will never break your heart.
My words were not going to be a vague reference to anything because I promised they wouldn’t be. They were not going to be a story stolen from the pages of my journals, written about no one and nothing, and I was working so hard to make my words be about something different entirely. Something completely unrelated to the thoughts that had been running through my mind all weekend because I wanted to let you read something that didn’t feel like a public display of a private moment.
But the moment doesn’t seem quite so private anymore. It feels disposable.
I’m wiping the slate clean and letting myself be as easily convinced tomorrow as I was last week that I don’t need these walls. Because puppies are wonderful, but sometimes you need something that will talk back. Sometimes you need someone even though they might break your heart. Because it turns out the diving board is more like a cliff, and it turns out that the cliff is just a little rockier, or a little higher, or the waters below are just a little murkier than you’d like them to be. And giggles and smiles are great, but you’re not a toddler anymore.
Less eloquent post here, if you please.