(no subject)

[elizabeth]

There's a poem I wrote, about two years ago, that I've been really proud of, about being uncertain in a relationship, about being afraid of it, about running away from it. I'm still really proud of the poem -- there's some good imagery in there, and the tone is well-handled, I think -- but I couldn't write that poem anymore.

I'm not that girl anymore.

I'm not afraid of getting involved with people anymore.

Amazing.

When did this happen? When did I change? Did I miss the memo? I don't even care if I did, because I'm so astonished -- I've spent so long knowing that I was letting fear control what I did, knowing that I had scars that I couldn't trust were ever going to fade, that the thought that I'm not like that anymore, even a little bit, because I don't think I've changed completely, is like being told that the laws of physics have changed overnight. That F = ma is no longer true; that the philosophical problem of what would happen if things feel upwards is no longer hypothetical; that it's okay to say please and knowing someone will answer yes.

Absolutely fucking amazing.

And not even frightening. When I think of the various relationships I have now, the ones I want to keep, I keep thinking I should be terrified of the prospect of holding up my end for years, for, well, ever, but I'm not. I'm honestly not. I want that, I can't think of anything that matters more, the thought makes me happy.

When something starts impacting my writing, that's how I know it's real, more than skin deep, more than a passing mood. This is real. This is me now.

This is amazing.