Reblogging myself because

Reblogging myself because… what was that? Five minutes?

“Jessica has a forehead scar from the deep end of a pool. I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else.”

There is an ‘us’ somewhere. It’s not here, it’s not even an uttered concept right now, but the novel idea of you and me together exists. Us. It’s hard to find in this noisy life, especially with people and clashing lifestyles obstructing the view. I find it, however—and keep finding myself in it—when our eyes meet. That’s us. When the world moves a half second ahead of us, riotous and oblivious, we find each other in a glance.

I find it fascinating that people who choose not to have children are generally assumed to feel really strongly about not having children (or even to feel really strongly against children, anyone’s children, in general). I am probably not going to have children, not because I REALLY REALLY HATE the idea of having children, but because I don’t really really love it. Out of all the major decisions I will make in my life, this one is the only irreversible one. I can sell a house, quit a job, divorce a spouse, whatever. I cannot unhave a child. I cannot opt out of being a parent once I become a parent. I can’t even take a step back for the sake of self-care or whatever, or else my child will suffer.

I can turn you into poetry, adorn you with pretty words and compare you to the stars and the moon. I can place a crown on top of your head and make you a king between the lines. But I can never turn our story into more than it was: a love gone to waste. I wish I could stop writing about you.