Falling back in love with words.

Oh how I missed writing.

Falling. The action of being pulled by gravity onto or into something: the floor, the earth, in love.

Whether it’s literal or metaphorical, the impact is painful. Sometimes you don’t know what’s underneath; you just hope the hit won’t kill you. I choose falling on the floor over falling in love again. But alas, I am human; I have a heart and a brain, and what doesn’t kill me makes me want to be swept down by gravity again.

The only true way to love something is unconditionally. You see the flaws, you see the bad and even the pain, but you’re there holding on to what makes you feel complete. Love shouldn’t hurt; it should be easy, and it is, but life makes it hard and painful. We make it painful.

I fell out of love with words this year. In a year where I have lost more than I ever thought I would, one of the biggest losses was words.

The words I didn’t say.

The words I didn’t write.

The words I didn’t read.

I left pieces of myself, the version of me that buried herself in books and notebooks. I lost myself in my own pain, leaving behind the biggest love I have ever felt. I reached out and held the pages in my fingers; I felt the tingle of a spark, but staring at the letters, I felt nothing. We lost our touch.

I cursed you out for being what I have always wanted since I learned to read.

It took time, space, anger, and even a little hate to try again. I reached out so many times, and I never got an answer. It took losing versions of myself to get back to you, and here we are—me hopelessly devoted to you again, and you, an inanimate object holding space for me.

I found my words again. I fell in love with stories again, with writing, reading, with every letter. I had missed you, but I have missed myself more.