Outside at Kevin’s house in Alameda, taking my first sip from the bottle of wine I saved specifically for the solitude my birthday always brings. I think back to last year, sleeping in my van with Bean on the side of the road in Colorado, wondering what would happen next.

Quite a bit has happened.

I come back to the Bay Area feeling like an entirely different person – and in many ways, I am. I listen to conversations that could have happened last year, or the year before, no longer a part of their subjects nor wanting to be.

So much swirls around in my head and heart.

At the Temple this year, someone placed a small mirror. Written on it was “Worth Fighting For”. I spent a lot of time at the Temple, many hours in silence, and noticed the mirror often – but not until I looked into it and saw my reflection did I understand. Then I cried some more, and wrote those words on my forearm.

Sometimes I forget them. Frequently, these days.

As a child I fell in love with the tragedy of romance, then that’s what I became. That was never my intention – but then, I never intended to last this long. Everything a dream, everything an illusion. I created what i needed to, and it is destroyed because of my past. I want to believe that there will be a time that the past is only the past. Stories to tell or not, nothing to crush the dreams that mean the most to me.
her.
Of course.
I keep telling myself that now is not the time. I keep telling myself that there will actually be one. I rationalize. I dream. I seldom look at her pictures anymore. I don’t need to. I don’t want to. I want to try to believe that she is as gone as she acts. As empty in my heart as her silence. How can we live without even the faintest of dreams? What is life without sharing it with someone we love? I can’t understand that, nor do I want to live in that world.

Worth Fighting For.

I’ll fight for me.

Maybe one day, my past won’t come between us.

I don’t know how much fight I have left in me. it seems like all I’ve been doing for years
and I grow weary.

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