My OCD kicked into high-gear this morning, and I’ve stayed in my PJs and attacked my house with gusto. Those greasy knobs on the stove? Soaked and scrubbed. Those loads of laundry in various stages of progress? Progressing and getting put away. The nightstand drawer that becomes a catch-all for much randomness? Emptied and organized.
And in that nightstand drawer I found a journal. A pretty wire-bound, lined notebook with only two pages having been touched by a fine point blue pen. The first page was something I wrote for my high school boyfriend, the relationship I kept through my first three years of college. The second page was something he wrote to me. Reading these words today, I’m struck by how different my life is. How much more cynical I am about relationships and love; more realistic about happiness and forever.
Eleven years. It was such a long time ago.
More than words our song is harmony itself. A gentle network of notes and life, quietly turning through the air and kissing our ears. It hums in the depths of our minds, a minute echo of the raging feelings that soar about our hearts and souls, and lighting our eyes with joy and love. We are one; we sing it; we rejoice in it daily as our thoughts touch in misty splendor. Fields of flowers spring up before our path yet we do not trample a petal, so light are our hearts. Instead in the breeze of our joy and laughter they sway. We hold the right to all of the happiness in the world between our hearts. We are eternal, we are bliss, we race through life hand-in-hand and laugh as the moonlight caresses us. We sing our song, airy as the wind itself and let it float towards the sky. Birds catch its notes only as nature could; that rippling, twisting, flowing music of love. As we go silent standing amidst the flowers untrampled, moonlight wrapping us in sil’vry glow… we listen as the world sings our chorus and ride the wind around us. In each other’s arms amidst our heart-song we stand knowing nothing but each other. We know nothing but love.