I have spent the better part of my life journaling about nonexistent relationships. Wishes, hopes, dreams, fantasies of what could have, should have, and would have been fill pages upon pages of my diaries. Yet, what is remains undocumented.
Maybe it’s because of work, school, business. Who has time to journal with all of these responsibilities? Maybe it’s due to all the stress. How can I even think with all that’s on my mind? Or maybe, maybe I’m just living. Not writing about living, but living. Not writing about loving, but loving. Not formulating stories about heartfelt conversations; not imagining the feel of the touch of a hand; not considering the excitement of a long-awaited hug; but experiencing it… all of it! Not in the pages of my journals nor in the recesses of my thoughts, but in my life… finally.