Entry 1217

My eyes were beaming with a shimmer of hope that glimmered until there was no one to return the look. One that was familiar and came from a friend, the kind you find only once in a lifetime. But perhaps I have already lived several. Each season is a life of its own. The flipping of a calendar symbolizing some sort of change undergone by my body, shedding weight and longer hair, waking up around noon and sleeping just before sunrise. 

    Perhaps each day is a life of its own. Each second that passes a moment, each moment that comes and goes, a memory. But what is love if there is no one to share it with? Until then, I'll store up this love silently and within. Use it to bring myself to look at the mirror, at myself. and smile. A smile that cannot be repeated or stolen, but simply appreciated. I can do this by listening to the rain hitting my windowsill a few hours after midnight while I am at my desk, doing anything but writing. 

    But there is a time and place for everything. A time to write, and a time to read. A time to pursue, and a time to wait. 

    I don't know yet what I plan to write, or what exactly I am waiting for, but I know that in all of the patience and wonder that the universe embodies and shapes, I am heading towards something and that something is headed towards me, too.