I guess I need to just start calling these random words what they are ~ journal entries. I hated the term journaling, I felt it diminished my writing back when I dreamed of being a professional.
But my writing is too paltry to be diminished, and I have great respect for those who journal regularly, persistence and consistency holding more weight with me now than whatever term you use to describe your hobby.
In my head it’s a golden picture.
A river banked by dirt and trees, the sound of wind & water. Faint strains of birds calling & friends laughing in the distance.
Peace. Golden sunshine peace. I can feel the earth beneath my hands, take deep breaths away from people & buildings & busy bustling life.
And he is there, with his stupid sunglasses, smiling.
I like it so much when he smiles.
In my head it’s not about romance.
Well, not mostly.
It’s about the nearness of you, your presence.
I want to touch your hand, your face, to reassure myself that you are real, that these moments aren’t just part of another dream.
My most pleasant dream now is of a future spent with you. It’s terrifying in how real I feel it could be. It’s terrifying how much I want it, despite the stifle I’ve always felt when thinking of a suburban happy family like you dream of. With you, somehow that picture actually looks lovely.
But I’m afraid I’m not myself, that I’m putting my own habits and hobbies away, that I’m changing.
And I honestly never wanted or dreamed of that.