I keep thinking the next thing will be it.

Maybe the next job, the next project, the next person in my life.

But I don’t know what it is I’m searching for.

All I know is something is missing.

I want you to love me
the same way you’d love a shelter dog,
who flinches when you try to pet her
because she isn’t sure if you’ll offer a stroke
or if you’ll hit her.

The novelty of this is
exquisite.
In my adult life, I've never gone this long without allowing another human to touch me.
A new concept
the next time it happens, it will mean something.

30 days ago, I set a challenge for myself:
       No ***, for 6 months.

I am on day 31.
        That means there are 149 days to go.

This is
the single  
most idiotic
decision I have made in a long time.

The ideas; dreams and realities.

The expectations; silent and spoken.

The potentials; all that could be and all that never will be.

Warm hearts ****** into a cold world.
That is why it's so **** hard.

Free of contamination
from human disappointments
from the harsh reality that only you can take care of yourself

I heard a poem the other day, a line has haunted me for days.

"I want to be loved not because I'm the antidote to your loneliness, but because your loneliness runs parallel to mine." -Whitney Hanson.

Serenity.

A warm cup of coffee in cold hands.
Quiet stillness on a porch.
The sounds of water and birds.

A book in my lap, transporting me to another world.