I said to you earlier tonight that I can’t write the entry that I want to. I’m waiting on that other shoe. I am holding my breath, afraid to exhale. If the flapping of a butterfly’s wing can alter the course of events, what might I do by daring to breathe?

You have said on several occasions that all is pain. I would counter with “all is fear”. The closer Sunday gets the more the fear ratchets up. Every day another notch … or two … or three. I am not afraid to meet you. I live in fear that the time to meet you is so close now that I’m daring to hope. I almost never allow it in my life. I have hoped once too often – been crushed in the rubble of disappointment even more often. What I feel for you … It’s pushing hope to the surface like a beacon. I’m horrified that I can’t shove it back down, that fate will see the light of that beacon and treat it as a target to be destroyed.

There are infinite things that can go wrong to prevent this meeting. All it takes is one. This is how my life has been. I hope. I trust. I believe… I’m torn asunder. I want to believe that if I don’t allow myself to hope, to get excited, nothing will come snatch it out of my grasp. This happiness I have, I feel as if I’m standing at the top of a pinnacle with a megaphone announcing to the Universe that it’s time to show me, again, that I’m not worthy. That I mustn’t be this happy. No one can be allowed to be this happy. This line of thought is in direct contrast to my belief that we are meant. That we were brought together for mutual fulfillment.

I need to believe this happiness … this boundless joy … will be allowed to continue. I’m terrified that to believe it will, is pure fantasy.


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