I write here, because I am grateful to be alive, and because I’m not scared of the day it will end.
I write on a bench, looking out at the sky, with leaves hanging over my shoulders and the ground soft under my feet. I write because it’s cold, and I don’t mind. I’m just happy that I get to feel it.
I share with you, now, the only love letter that I have ever written. Maybe that’s the wrong phrase. It has no address, and I haven’t the faintest clue where I’d put the stamp. However, I am absolutely certain that it can be considered romantic. A word defined not only by the feelings and emotions of love, but representing an idealised view of the world. That, today and I am certain for a long time afterwards, is where I find myself.
Every day, when I wake up, I choose a life of good books, left-wing politics, walks and learning and cool breezes and remarkable people. A warm sun. I let them give me purpose, because I remember the days when I didn’t want them. All I would long for was quiet, an escape from such a loud, loud world. I built peace for myself, and long for a world that has peace for others too.
Being romantic can be to see the world not for what it is, but for what it could be, if only we tried hard enough. Hope keeps me waking up, and going outside, and talking as much as I can. I understand that the world is far from perfect. I’m grateful to be a part of it. Even when the dark creeps back in, moving forward is not longer a trial, but a challenge. Pushing forward to make something better gives me hope too. It’s how I know I’m still here. Isn’t that wonderful?
So, as I sit on a bench with soft earth and brown leaves and the sun shining on the lake, I remember to take some deep breaths. And, for the first time in what feels like centuries, I don’t want to leave. I don’t need to escape anymore. As long as I have goodness around me, I can fill the dark spaces with light. However, for now, it’s quiet, and beautiful, and I don’t have anywhere to be. I couldn’t love it more.
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