“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”— Jack Kerouac, On the Road
It’s been a few hours since I wrote that last post, and it’s made a world of a difference. I wish I’d sat down a week ago to get that all off my chest, but maybe I wasn’t ready or didn’t have the time. Either way, it feels as though a weight has been lifted off me. I can now appreciate what it—and he—was without feeling sad about what they weren’t. And move forward whether something comes of it or not. Let it be, let it go, or wait and see what happens. Turns out, all I needed was to put pen to paper (or fingertips to a keyboard, in this case) in order to sort out my plethora of feelings and b r e a t h e. Journaling is a magic form of therapy, and I know when I need it. Thank God.
“She didn’t want the whole world, just somebody to share it with.”