More and more, it seems

Some of the best had.

Years of friendship and a special love that was rare.

The amount of care mixed with caution to dare.

Now is pushed aside, blocked out from knowing,

slowing the hope that resides.

It has and does ache, but is moving to memory,

to look upon fondly,

however indelibly.

oo.de.lally

The joy of children

makes me feel like a kid.

I get this feeling of energy and excitement bubbling from within-

like the only reasonable thing to do in that moment is to join in

and keep that kid laughing!

I want to run around and kick my feet,

I want to shout gleefully about nothing at all,

I want to make a mess and not care,

I want cuddle with all the innocence of the world.

Giggles of delight are a sweet melody to my ears.

Bring on the chilluns.

Have you nothing better to do

than
to follow me,
to attend the place I work,
to send me emails,
to drop things off in my office space,
to meet so much with my boss,
to lurk when large events are over,
to try and make trouble,
to badger my best friend and her workspace - coworkers - establishment,
to just never

give

up?


You're stalking and it's unhealthy.
Seek peace somewhere else; settling things with me will not bring it.
I forgive you, but I will not be reconciled to you- there is a difference.

Go in peace.

Right?

I dreamt about you, and it was sublime.
It made a lot of memories rush back
and reminded me how I miss you.

I keep hoping and praying that things will end up right,
but thinking of it all makes my heart uptight.

...

If there's just one thing I know:
away from you just doesn't seem right.

New journal

I bought a new journal
leather bound, with snaps and a simple utensil.
I love it.
I hate it.

I love the way it looks, the way it feels in my hands.
I love the secure snaps that, when opened, give way to a sleek thought keeper.
The possibilities are endless.

I hate the first page.
I always hesitate.
What will this booklet become?
Will I be bound to write in each day, then guilt-ride myself when I miss a few?  I know I'll give up.
Will I doodle and surely enough, not be satisfied at the product?  My drawing skills are few.
Shall I divulge my deepest secrets and let it become a vulnerable lock-box to my dreams?  I fear to be found.

I want to write.
Write and not have to erase, to delete.
I want to go at the page with purpose and poise;
with grace that delivers that which is rare and...beautiful.
I want it to be mine.

Are my words worth a penny?  A thought?  A moment?
Considering the first page fills me with hate.
But I love my journal.
What will it become?  And what of me?

Write on.

Magic and tears.

Magic and tears, all mixed up in fears

of where life will lead on.

Just a moment, it seemed, I hold you close

with wisdom and sadness, respect what you chose

And now, no words may leave my lips

or texts from my fingertips.

I miss- 

and the begrudging morning does dawn.

Lord, lead into what You have.

You just never know

where life is going to take you.
Who will draw close to your heart and who won't.
Where the next step will be.
I have dreams- will they appear?

Some people always know what they want,
sometimes down to a tee.
Getting a job has opened my eyes to endless possibilities
as well as strengths and weaknesses within myself.

My mind gets cluttered-
I'm surrounded by noise and to-dos.
I miss feeling free.
I miss expression; deep reflections of the heart.
I want to escape; but I love and fear where I am.
In life. As a person. To whom and how I relate.

My life can take endless paths.
I can imagine different ones now.
How does one realize what they want?
What is best for myself, for the world?

Will I always keep dreaming, or will I start living?

.o, when did I get so old?.