The language of love, our words that we speak to one another, has the staccato rhythm of a heartbeat, an electrical impulse sent to the tiny metal disk that rests underneath the surface of his skin, shocking his essential pump into a steady beat when it threatens to stop completely.
I love to inspire and help people, but I can't do that unless I can help myself. I want adventure, and I want to be excited about life, but these bouts of out of the blue depression are starting to get old and I do not know how to navigate through and out of them.
They always say that the people who look like they’ve got their lives the most put together are either, 1. Actually put together, or 2. Rotting on the inside.
I would classify as number 2.
I don't know who this person who you love should be to you, but I know what she is to you right now. Someone who has taught you that you have a beautiful, powerful, deep capacity to love someone else. And when we love someone, we give them an uncomplicated gift.
But maybe I don’t need fixing. Maybe I need peace. Peace with the darkness.
Peace with the fact that there may always be a part of me that aches for the groaning of bones and an empty stomach. Peace with my cosmic f*cked-up sense of perfection.
It was one thing to greet Jennifer and another thing to meet another forty other women. I surprisingly didn’t panic at all. Although, I was a bit nervous. I was definitely out of my comfort zone. But it felt good. I felt accepted.
Those attributes though were not what made the women in the locker room beautiful. What made them beautiful was their confidence; their ability to be who they are and not worry about the opinions of others.
We all know there’s really only one way to stop aging, and that’s to die. I’d rather keep on living, with this ever-dynamic face. I found it looks years younger when I don’t scowl at the mirror.
