just rambles.

This is the miserable part. Everything inside me NEEDS to write...everything in my brain, heart, body, it all wants to push out. It wants to process. It wants to rest.
Too much good.
Too much hope.
Too much everything not to write.
But it's so hard. This resistance is vicious. It's only 6 19 and I'd rather do anything than write...but really...that's so untrue.
I want to write until my fingers bleed, until my wrists are broken, until I go blind. I want to write until I have a stack of papers so thick that I can't even carry it.
But I don't know what to say.
I don't know what I feel, other than completely overwhelmed with joy...and therefore, fear.
These miniature panic attacks when everything is perfect. What the fuck is that all about?
How is it that I can be having the time of my life, and panic strikes for a minute, forcing in thoughts of misery and unhappiness?
Is that just the human condition? Not truly comfortable unless I'm somehow unhappy?
But oh how happy I am. This happiness reaches into every pore of my body and I'm flooded and blinded and sailing and falling and I'm not even sure where I am, so disoriented because of this happiness.
I don't want to over glorify life, though. I don't want to be unaware of the fact that things are going to suck sometimes, and that's okay.
And maybe that's where the fear comes in, knowing that at some point, sometime, probably even sometime soon, I'll cry. Or hurt. Or just be upset or disturbed for no reason at all.
I dread those moments. I dread moments of dispair, and as I dread them...I get a taste of it. Of the moment that I might be secretly summoning just so that I don't have to wait anymore.
I'm still looking absently around and fiddling with my phone, just to avoid this. To avoid the flow of emotions and thoughts that I know will instantly relieve me when they're out of me.
I think of other things I could be doing: reading, laundry, movie, smoking, napping, anything but this. And this..this...this...is what I really want to do..what I want to do all day every day.
It's the only tangible thing in life that fills me.
oh.
and love.
Love came again. And this time just destroyed me. Destroyed.
I want to love him with everything I have. But what if I don't have enough? What has caused me such discontent in the past? Was it just never the right time?
I never want it to stop being the right time with him. I never want to run away from him. And yet I've said all this before, I've loved before.
And I love again.
And I guess that's all I can do...is to keep giving it. To keep receiving it. To keep spending ridiculous days with him and smiling and laughing and being so sickeningly in love that everyone else and us included want to puke all over everything.
okay.