I’m in love with a stranger.
He is a painter.
He paints in articulate words and vivid colors,
And I find comfort in his unfamiliarity–
It captures my image of what bold should be–
Like the edges of his skin when I touch him–
But he stands behind a door without a number,
And it rests at the end of my sight,
So I continue to move towards something that is, and isn’t, there.
I am in love with a stranger,
And he is a painter.
I am scared of a lot of things.
I’m scared of ISIS, terrorism, disease, and people hiding in the dark, waiting for people like me. I am scared of him. I am scared of being alone, and having no one to go to. I am scared of disappointing my parents, getting pregnant before I get married, and not making it into grad school. I am scared of school. I am scared of losing everything, and dying before I get the chance to live,
But I love running outside in my bare feet, and making up words to songs. I love driving when everyone else is sleeping, and pretending like I am the only person left in a small country town with a name no one seems to remember. I love talking about nonsensical things with friends, and drinking underneath the stars that fall along the river.
My fears will not stop me from walking outside, and breathing in freshly cut grass, or the crisp mornings lining my windows. My fears will never leave me, but my love for life, and for people, will fuel enough excitement and energy to search for more.
More than black and white, and more than memories left behind in pictures.
I am writing this blog so I can continue to move past the darkness pressing into my sides, cutting into my lungs, while I look into my past. I want to breathe again, but first–I need to start from the beginning. Or maybe from the middle.
This is me.