tumblinas.

My feelings are my feelings.  Sometimes they aren’t necessarily fact.  And they don’t define me.  They are a part of me.  I’m so many things.  I fancy myself a writer, and am unable to describe myself  as more than so many things.  And so what?  I’ve spent a long time, trying to tidy them up.  To make them presentable, and proper.  To make them what I think other people think they should be.  And it is has been exhausting. How many nights have I spent with my girlfriends agonizing over the following question:  What if I fall in love with someone, and he doesn’t love me back, or he does and then one day he doesn’t anymore?  I’ve been a mirror in romantic relationships, never stopping once, until now, to really look past what was being reflected.  Am I as simple as  Jane Goodall and her gorillas?  No.  But I’m terrified of being vulnerable.  A turtle on its back.  The thought makes my pulse race and my stomach heave.