(no subject)
So, I've been packing a lot today, slowly but steadily dismantling my life from the past five years.
I found a notebook I just vaguely remember making a couple summers ago. It has dandelions drawn with sharpee all over the covers. I started writing a story in it. The first and only story I'd written in about four years. It's not very good, but there was a bit that I liked.
"Some people would say that being knee-deep or waist-deep or toe-deep in love isn't really love. She thought those people were stupid. It was all love, everything was love. It didn't matter how much. It just mattered how."
Story of my life.
:::sigh::: I'm already starting to miss things.
I found a notebook I just vaguely remember making a couple summers ago. It has dandelions drawn with sharpee all over the covers. I started writing a story in it. The first and only story I'd written in about four years. It's not very good, but there was a bit that I liked.
"Some people would say that being knee-deep or waist-deep or toe-deep in love isn't really love. She thought those people were stupid. It was all love, everything was love. It didn't matter how much. It just mattered how."
Story of my life.
:::sigh::: I'm already starting to miss things.