I didn’t want the moon anyway. I’ve had enough of pale promises broken and shattered fragments of dreams. I’ve had enough of mourning them, and the destruction that grieving brought.
But somehow I have to go back to the dreams, back to the fancies, back to the romances I’d spun of golden hope.
They were part of me, and without them I am not whole, not enough to offer to someone else. I have to face the pain I had pushed away, and somehow tunnel through it to the light of new hope.
I don’t know if I can do it, don’t know if the attempt will send me spiraling back into the black despair that ate at me for months, but I have to risk it. Because there is finally someone to risk it for.
And that knowledge will sustain me.
it is wonderful and amazing how writing out thoughts can help. even long after they're written, they can serve as a reminder.