If I had one chance to love you, I wouldn’t think of pushing love away. I wouldn’t tell it to come back later, to take a raincheck, to meet me at the same time next year when things are different, when circumstances are better.
“Just don’t be stupid next time.”
We trudge through these difficult moments not because we were taught in a theoretical sense that practice will make us perfect.
Two years ago this New Year’s Eve, I committed to writing regularly in a journal. I had done the journal thing before, but I had never managed to be consistent enough, never descriptive enough, never good enough – there was always something that left me unsettled about how I had been documenting my life.
I once asked my friend what she thought the inside of her mind looked like. She thought it looked like a room full of filing cabinets. Rows upon rows of metal drawers, filled with folders, stuffed with papers.
I pulled up to the streetlight and next to me was a silver Honda.
Nothing is regression, but regression isn’t nothing.
Love is potent, to be used carefully and wisely and only in the right doses and at the right time.