I feel as though I talk about love a lot. I mean, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but since I don’t plan to experience the concept in relation to a boy any time soon, it’s kind of irrelevant for me. And the fact that I’m discussing hypothetical situations and feelings that I’ve never had in that capacity? Yeah. Makes me feel like a desperate loser.
But, I suppose, isn’t it better to discuss things? If in twenty years I revisit this blog, I might be amused. Or writing it all out could help me actually do some deep thinking without getting really upset.
The only reason I got upset in the first place was because I’m a wimp. Okay, so I can pretty much handle anything. But really deep down, I’m scared of everything. The most you can do is live anyway, and be strong and vibrant regardless of the fear. To put it aside and in the back of your mind because it’s certainly the least important.
But there’s an undercurrent of quick, freezing terror sometimes. Just a swift jolt to remind me. If anything happened to my family or friends, I’d be nothing. I’m nothing without them. In the same breath, if anything happened to prevent me from living out the dreams I’ve laid for myself, it would be similarly devastating. There’s always so much to lose.
On the other hand there’s so much to gain. And that’s what that little streak of romantic in my heart keeps telling me. That’s why I’m not, say, a psychopath or something. Because there’s always that brave streak of “hey, dude, look at this, this is life and you are here. Live.”