I'm sat in the most beautiful park on a cold winter morning. There are pigeons around me, resting in the grass and then flying off somewhere, far and beautiful I imagine. I wish I could feel life more. Like, really feel it. You know what I mean? I don't want to miss a moment of this, I want to be painfully aware of everything.
My fingers are frozen but I keep writing. Writing is my form of living. This past few months have been a lot about self-discovery. I found myself in a beautiful foreign city, and I realized that that doesn't make life any easier. You still have to find yourself, you still need to figure it all out. I know that my world has to somehow shape around words. They are the whole foundation of my sanity. I cannot conceive of a world where I can't come to the park one winter morning and write about the rose petals, or the rain drops, or the wind blowing in my face and telling me secrets.
I believe in life only when I write about it. Do you believe in me?
Because this is a giant leap that I'm taking. I think I'm ready to take it though. I'm ready to accept that I was born merely for this, to immortalize a fleeting moment. But you'll be disappointed, I know this. And I can't help but think that partly this is all my fault, I fed you lies for so many years, I created another me, a strong girl you could be proud of, and now that I'm ready to reveal my real self, you won't believe it. I never wanted to be strong, I just wanted to be real. And if fragile is what makes real, then I'll be fragile.
I'll be fragile. Will you still love me in the morning?