Part One.

The living room seems dark, but not empty. All of the people and love and shouts and celebrations linger, but you'd never even know. It all just looks like hardwood, trinkets and loveseat. You don't know who has sat there, or what they've meant to the clumsiness in the kitchen. You don't know the sheer volume of love in that room the day the streamers went up and the giftwrap came off. I feel like I want to document these beautiful things, and keep them somewhere so I can always remember and value them.

But then they'd lose some of the magic, wouldn't they? These lovely things are so fleeting and delicate, and we shed tears for them. We cry over losses and feel such pain and anguish when those tiny moments of our lives dance from us, through time. But look at yourself. Who are you now versus who you were then? Are you not entirely changed? Has the magic and the love and the happiness, along with the fear and anger and regret changed you? I am different now. I am closer.

And maybe hope seems like such an unfriendly concept to me because it inspires letting go. And it feels so good to finally relax that clenched fist and flow with the river instead of fighting it... Yet I find myself not wanting to. In letting go, am I losing you? Am I losing what could be?