“So what exactly are you afraid of?” he asked, “Are you scared of being alone?”
He noticed an unmistakable twitch near her right eye as she managed a strained shake of the head.
“Being lonely maybe?  There’s a difference.” She mumbled.
For a split second, he saw the brightness of her eyes leave, replaced by a dull vacancy.
“How so?” he asked.
“Being alone means waking up to nobody, being lonely means waking up to nothing.” She whispered.
He wasn’t sure what to say.  In an effort to hide his tension, he shifted his weight restlessly on his chair. Echoing his movements, she sat down on the floor and pulled her knees into her chest and wrapped her long arms around her legs.
 “No,” she stuttered, “Sorry, I was wrong.  I don’t think I’m scared of loneliness.  I’m terrified with that which comes before it.  Is there a word for something so destructive?”

Her question hung in the air like a dense fog.  Her fear was silent, yet visible, only by the hollowness of her eyes, of which he saw a landscape of never-ending catastrophes.  For one brief moment he fell into it.  He found himself in a place where tsunamis had ripped her hopes apart from their roots.  Hurricanes had weathered her once concrete dreams into dust and shame.  Regret spread like wildfire and burned his lungs with smoke and loathing.  He was dizzy from the bitter ash that flooded his throat and deaf from the wind that shrieked tales of betrayal and lies. 
Then almost as soon as he fell, he broke from his trance. 

“Hey, are you okay?” she asked, “I lost you for a second there.”   

If we are a collection of everything we’ve ever loved, I am the specular reflection of colors that blend together on the raindrops of glass windows.  I am the angular patterns of light and shadow you can only distinguish if you look closely enough.   I am crooked smiles. I am eyes as bright as sunlight on the open sea.  



I am the fresh scent of pine and dry lavender on the first day of winter.  I am the smell of nostalgia on old novels.  I am the monologues of dreamers and the whispers of hearts.  I am the gentle lullaby of the ocean as it sings the tired sun to sleep.  



I am the invigorating spice of wanderlust and adventure.  I am the perk of bitter coffee as it hits your tongue on an hour too dark to call morning. I am the wind you feel beneath your feet and the air you carry in your lungs, as you run wild and free. I am the comfort of arms reminding you that you are not alone, even when your own strength has abandoned you. 


This is a mere summary of only a few of the things that I love, but If you have felt what I have felt and you’ve seen what I have seen, then perhaps, you might understand me.