So often I find belief to be a difficult thing, so solemn and small, so elusive. It's hard to remember a a reason to have faith when the beauty in your world subsides suddenly, and life slows down to the ticking of the clock in seconds, the unbearable passing of time. (Alone.) It's easy to speak, to imagine I know what I'm saying, that it all makes sense, and that I mean every line from the heart. But it doesn't all fall quite that way from my mouth. What it comes down to most often is confusion, regret, uncertainty. The lesser stages of my life. I've got to move on.
What I would hope for is unattainable, irrational, a whisper instead of a scream. What I dream of is love in full bloom, and awakening to find a garden full of withered thoughts is disheartening. I haven't begun to truly look because my eyes keep catching on everything he was to me, everything so perfectly carved away to fit his words. There was a comfort in them, and thinking that the beauty, the same looseness, could be found in another is nearly unimaginable.
There is a future with someone else. I tell myself that. There is another love, something strong that will not shatter under the pressure, will not crumble inside the emotions. Something to excite me, thrill me, leave me breathless and full of life. What I have seen is lonely, but what hides just out of sight is surely sweet. Something to taste after the pain, to wash down the bitterness of this situation.
There are, of course, the small things that carry me along (push, really) like the way a certain man says my name, smiles at me, brushes my shoulder or hand accidentally when he walks by: the nervousness of a new crush, something I'd forgotten. A song that reminds me in the chorus that there is life after loss, smiles following tears. Something so tiny keeps me going. Each phrase, each new memory made, is a blessing. This new life will make me wiser, more tolerant, and will help me build a deeper faith, a vast hope.