" Let me learn from where I’ve been. "

- Mumford & Sons
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They say that the path we take leads us where we need to go, that each moment and person is part of the journey that leads us in the right direction. But, sometimes, and only sometimes, I wonder if that direction is wrong. I’ve never believed in fate or predestination or “God”. I don’t think that our paths are cut out for us or that we have no control. I think that when we hop in our car at 1 a.m. on a Thursday and drive two hours south to knock on a man’s door just to see if the words match the man we change the story. Sometimes, at 2 a.m. when the house is quiet my mind wanders. I question if the pictures on the wall, and my fifteen plants and two cats are enough, or if somewhere along the way I made a misstep. Or if I’m just looking back and questioning to put it all into perspective. 

I’ve always thought of my life that way - as if I’m an old woman writing the story of a young girl. Maybe this is all just a dream and I’m reflecting back on the day when I was just a 26 year old woman with fifteen plants and two cats. My heart knows there’s more to my life than that. There’s moments at the tops of waterfalls with the rain falling through the trees as he stared at me underneath jungle leaves the water plastering hair to his forehead. There’s moments of watching a Mother open the casket of her only son, too young to be gone and her to young to mourn her child. There’s moments of joy that only can be described as fulfilling and intoxicating. And there’s moments of pain that I can only recall with a stabbing ache and eyes filled with tears. 
I feel as if I’m holding out for something lost. My hands reaching towards broken bottles and empty pages in books that were hand-bound for me to write and draw. But, there’s nothing on the paper. There’s nothing to say or show the world. Because something is missing.
Across the room there’s silence and in my heart there’s quiet, an angry stillness. Like the sea right before the storm, the tide is churning below the waves. The soft, gentle waves that lie and fool me into thinking that tomorrow will be another day of calm, not chaos. And I reach out, across cold sheets where sometimes another lies, and most of the time no one to see if there’s a back I can press my hand into. Just the warmth of knowing someone is there despite the monster that rages inside. But the bed is still empty. The chapter remains unfinished, begging for completion like the desert begs for rain. 
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" 'I wasn't looking for answers in him,' she said solemnly, her blue eyes staring straight into his. 'I was looking for myself.'

He stared at her for a moment, studying the lines of her face, the way her eyes said she was lovely and timeless, yet also old and wise. ‘I don’t understand what you could find in a person, you shouldn’t have been able to find in yourself,’ he responded, drawing the words out slowly.

She laughed a little, the kind of laugh that echoes a little in your memories, ‘He was smart and strong, not just of body but of character. He liked adventure and books and wasn’t afraid. I was afraid. I was always afraid.” She paused and looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together like she was knitting them, ‘And I needed him to show me that I too was those things, that I could climb a tree and laugh like a child. Or that I could lay in bed all day with a book and let my imagination wander. I found all the things I loved about myself, because he loved me.’

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" 'All your stories are so sad,' he said.
She looked up at him from the edge of her coffee, the steam rising in puffs of silky gray, ‘Because I always fall in love with the right person at the exact wrong time,’ she said taking a slow sip. ‘And I can never win against something that powerful.’ "

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