We all want to fall in love.

We are human, and because we are, their is a slight yearning within us; we all want to fall in love. What that exactly entails however, it completely ambiguous (or to me at least). What is it about human companionship that makes it so attractive? Is it sharing those little but precious moments in life? Having someone understand you in some way that everyone else can't? Or is it simply the feeling of being loved and being in love, an emotion greater than all the rest, that draws us into a different realm from reality. That realm being better than reality itself, making me wonder if it is all an allusion.

Allusion or not, I have it. That slight yearning to fall in love. A love so great that it changes me and my perception of the world. But in my case, it's not romantic love I'm talking about (although, that would be nice too). I'm writing along the lines of falling in love with words. Words made into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters, and chapters into a novel. I want to fall in love with a novel. I want to read something that leaves me breathless. I want to read something that completely changes me. I want something that shares a precious moment with me, or understands me in some way that I didn't even know of about myself. Something that gives me a feeling that can't be described. Whether it is an allusion or not, I don't care. I just want it.

I've read three novels this week. They seemed so promising at first, but just didn't satisfy me in the end. They just fell flat. Now I'm left disappointed, almost like all of my past relationships. Now I'm left waiting and wondering if their will be a book that sweeps me off my feet.

And as an after thought it all just makes me completely frightened. What if one day I'm a writer and I disappoint my readers? Or what if none of my readers fall in love with my writing? What if I never sweep someone off their feet?

The Disappointment of the Superficial

In a sea of intoxicated people, I stand with a clear mind envisioning a place I would rather be: somewhere up high, between the earth and sky, where I am unreachable and untouchable, yet I'm able to see it all.

But at that point in time, I didn't need a bird's eye view; I saw it all before me on the ground.

And what I found is that I didn't want to be in that sea filled with all things superficial.
 I'm different. I'm me. That's who I want to be.

So I'm gonna jump off this pedestal that you've placed me on so that you can sit there instead; the place you've always coveted. May it feed your ego, your only happiness.


Life at Thirty-Seven

I can't remember the last time I spent the whole day reading and finishing a book of my own choosing for pure enjoyment. After switching my major to English, it seems like all I've been doing is required reading. Granted, some of the books I'm required to read I've liked, but it's not the same as choosing a book that I'm genuinely interested in and reading it for simply the sake of reading.

While in school, I have a tendency to buy books that I want to read, yet I leave them unread on my bedside bookshelf. Over time the books accumulate and now that it's summer, they stare at me accusingly.

Since I'll be heading to Paris in about a month and a half, I decided to start with Paris My Sweet by Amy Thomas. In this book, Amy Thomas, a complete francophile and chocolate addict, describes her life as she leaves New York for a job offer in Paris.

This book definitely made me hungry as I followed Amy on her quest for the best sweets in Paris and New York, but it also left me evaluating my own life. Yes, she has a successful writing career and lives in one of the best cities of the world, but she's also thirty-seven, single, and facing infertility.

Without a satisfying resolution at the end of the book, I couldn't help but wonder about my life at thirty-seven.

What would become of me then? Would I be alive? Would I think back on my thirty-seven years and say to myself, "Wow, I've really lived." Or would I regret the time that I wasted?

What's more important? A career or love? Why I think about this stuff at 12:04 a.m., I have no idea. I'm just so worried about the future, confused about the present, and at a loss of words about the past. I can't really make up my mind about what I want out of life. My adventurous side just wants to travel, experience, meet people, write, and wander around in unfamiliar territories. On the other hand my romantic side wants to spend my life with someone, brave the world, and be in love. Are the two lives compatible? I'm not sure. Maybe. Who knows?




We love and we hurt; we learn and we grow. Only then will we start anew.

I woke up this morning and I noticed that I was breathing easily. No panic. No stress. No groggy or tired feeling. No nightmares or  crazy dreams. Just a peaceful sleep ended by my eyes opening.

No more ties to the past, only hope for each coming day. It's the feeling of falling in love, and I am in love with life, despite all the pain that comes with it... because with pain, comes beauty.

And with beauty comes strength.
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