You feel enough.
Do you know how soft and tender you make me feel? I’m picking up my journal just to write about this feeling. Right after I woke up, before my morning routine, amidst my still blurry eyes.
I want to apologize to myself for thinking my being wasn’t capable of being held gently. I thought I’d constantly yearn for things I wasn’t meant to live with.
I want to thank you for making me realize, it exists for me - a soft, silent, whisper of care. Thank you for not being loud. Thank you for being calm (thank you for not making yelling an option ever). Thank you for all of the patience (thank you for embracing my curiosity and mistakes), and adoration (thank you for praising every breath I take), you have shown me.
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We met just a couple of weeks ago, and I’m always one to take things slow. I always measure out how much to give based on the number of times spent. But I read somewhere yesterday, a sentence that spoke to my soul: “This world is already numb enough. Don’t you dare shrink your softness.”
So, on this page, I will admit to myself. I want to keep on writing about you. I want to fill so many different pages of this restful form of care that feels like a peaceful slumber. That feels like strolling through a garden I grew myself. That feels like stirring a pot of homemade soup based on my mother’s cookbook. That feels like the presence of gratitude in a field of chaos. That feels like saying “no” as an option, not a burden, and will always be heard.
I’ve been so gentle to myself. I’ve been holding myself as if I were a snow flower, breaking if a single breath tapped its being. I’ve never settled. I’ve never accepted. I always change — for the better, for the better. And I would like to match my soul with a similar one.
One who’s me, one who wouldn’t pass 25% in a volume bar, one who listens, one who talks, one who understands, one who sees, one who’s secure, one who’s grounded, one who’s made out of dim, yellow lights. And I’m hoping that one is you.
Crudity.
