They say to keep on dreaming even if it breaks your heart.
I am indeed a dreamer, my friend.
A dreamer with a slightly almost shattered heart.
I dream of words, the black curves delicately placed on a once empty space.
The beginners, the ones who started it all.
British literature.
French artists.
Italian impressionists.
I want to envelop a life full of beauty, full of life.
Full of art.
A quiet, quirky English teacher perhaps? Who loves her books more than anything and feels beautiful because she's fallen in love with poetry.
The successful, powerful, **** woman who walks through the fashion industry? Maybe she's happy, but she's become a workoholic who is afraid of committing to marriage because she's hurt.
Or maybe she becomes a decent writer, who became famous off her very first novel highlighting the struggles in her childhood.
She just wants to write.
Endlessly write.
Her thoughts.
Her dreams.
What she's fallen in love with.
Maybe even him.
But really she has no idea what she wants.

I've been doing ok.
Thinking about what it may be like to only know you as a ghost.
You've already started preparing me for it.
The missed phone calls.
It doesn't feel like a part of me is missing anymore really.
Instead like a new part is attempting to burst.
I think I'm getting over it already without allowing myself to.
I've found myself a bubble I feel comfortable in.
The one where I don't think about real things.
But the characters I come to know in those words.
Or the constant running about and then passing out.
It will hit me one day that you're gone, but right now, the in between phase is where I'll stay.