Tumblr used to be my outlet, a place I could write about the ins and out of life without fear or reservation. And perhaps in losing that freedom I have lost an essential part of who I am: a writer. I can’t tell you what it is that I need to get out, but I’m certain I’ll find out. All I can tell you is theres’ an itch to express, a need to feel the void with a voice that’s unheard except for in this realm.
I can’t tell you what I need to write about. But I could venture a guess or two. I am pleasantly ignorant to the issues going on back home. Not pleasantly, really, because no part of living with questions tugging at your gut is pleasant. But the truth might be just as gut-wrenching, and my heart and mind have to be strong enough to take the blow. As much as we try, can we really “brace ourselves” for heartache, even when we see it coming a mile away? Sometimes there is no way to soften the truth.
I’m a quarter of a century old, and yet I am so keenly attached to my childhood dream-like vision of love that I can’t cope with the reality of how messy it can truly be. I want to believe that not every story ends in staleness, bitterness, and infidelity, but as I search around the world for evidence my pursuance is thin. Where do I find the reassurance that the world won’t crumble beneath my seemingly solid stance?
Love is messy. It’s complex, it’s difficult, and there doesn’t seem to be a “secret sauce” to making it last. It almost seems up to chance, and I’m not the type to bet on my luck. As I slowly gain the burden of knowledge I wonder how I can ever carry on the doe-eyed dreams of the young girl I once was. Don’t become jaded. Don’t be angry. Don’t let your hopes be squandered. These are all things I know I will tell myself time and time again, but I’m not certain whether or not I can live that mantra.
