Sometimes I think I’m ready to love again…
I exude this confidence, this elegance. In my walk and my very essence. It’s the reflection in the mirror and my warped shower head staring back at me with that same smile. Same tilted head. That familiar yet wondrous gaze that so perfectly affirms my beauty without a sound.
Not only assured of my physical beauty, but even more so with my amazing spirit. She who fills me with laughter, and steers me into new voyages, new feelings, new ideas. Forever curious. Forever young with the wisdom of much older souls.
My affinity and longing to find the North Star in every dark sky of hardship. Struggle. The certainty that I will. That hope is not some delusion, but a glimpse of my destination. Not an if, but a when.
My head’s in the clouds, in the vision with my feet on the ground, rooted in my path of self discovery and abundance. These times, when I’m most aligned, I truly am fully present, fully aware of my greatness. Of the overflowing love I have to give, the roots I can deepen whilst watering another’s garden, the magic I can create in a world that only perceives power…
Yet deep down I’m…hesitant to love again…
What if I stumble, fall too hard and shatter? What if I lose myelf again? Like eight gallons of lava doused under a foreign sea?
What if they’re too primal and I’m eaten alive—skin and bones left bared with nothing else to chew? What if this craving, this fear, eats me alive before I ever know what it’s like to be truly savored? What if it’s not a nightmare? What if they’re actually a dream and beyond but I wake before I ever even rest? How is it that I long for yet simultaneously fear being a recipient of conviction and devotion? How exactly did we get here?
So here I remain amongst dualities. Two sides of the same shell. Both siren and sailor’s advocate. Plagued by immobility with the occasional drift to sea, but ever anchored back to shore.
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