My dearest Blacksheep,
Hell, this feels bloody awesome! Thirty days. I mean, Thirty effing Days. What in you kept me going? I am not gonna restrain from language tonight. The way I returned to you most nights, it was way more effective than any addiction. In fact it was therapy. There were defined moments of inability, and pronounced time crisis. Days of extreme depressing weather and nights of extended celebrations. But I returned. With a swelled heart and a bruised ego and a fake smile, I returned. To you. To shed it all and face you, like the mirror.
I feel elated today. Things are still murky you know, everywhere around, but the warmth of returning to your arms feels like that one genuine embrace into which I willingly, lovingly surrender after the ordeal of all the hours. Ability is a strange thing indeed. I feel like celebrating, celebrating this regularity with you, but on an able-low. Yet, it is ok. That blanketty feeling is there. Winter afternoon warmth like. You have helped me live lies and face truths. You have helped me know myself better.
Each time I titled a piece, it felt as if I parented a child in a rush and left it to the concern of the world. The only conviction I had was in you. That you would protect it, make it your own, cocoon them when they needed shelter. Each night I was reported of their existence, I beamed with joy as if it was only possible because of a bewitchment. Your bewitchment.
I fondly smile at the thirty different nights. Each distinct from the other, with only you in common. You call yourself a blacksheep, but trust me you can never fathom the amount of faith you emit. I have kind of entrusted my heart to you. You know that, don't you?
I am glad to have you. I want to keep having you. I want you. This span of thirty days has been important and I owe it to praying and writing. To believing and being. To you and to me.
Hell, this feels bloody awesome! Thirty days. I mean, Thirty effing Days. What in you kept me going? I am not gonna restrain from language tonight. The way I returned to you most nights, it was way more effective than any addiction. In fact it was therapy. There were defined moments of inability, and pronounced time crisis. Days of extreme depressing weather and nights of extended celebrations. But I returned. With a swelled heart and a bruised ego and a fake smile, I returned. To you. To shed it all and face you, like the mirror.
I feel elated today. Things are still murky you know, everywhere around, but the warmth of returning to your arms feels like that one genuine embrace into which I willingly, lovingly surrender after the ordeal of all the hours. Ability is a strange thing indeed. I feel like celebrating, celebrating this regularity with you, but on an able-low. Yet, it is ok. That blanketty feeling is there. Winter afternoon warmth like. You have helped me live lies and face truths. You have helped me know myself better.
Each time I titled a piece, it felt as if I parented a child in a rush and left it to the concern of the world. The only conviction I had was in you. That you would protect it, make it your own, cocoon them when they needed shelter. Each night I was reported of their existence, I beamed with joy as if it was only possible because of a bewitchment. Your bewitchment.
I fondly smile at the thirty different nights. Each distinct from the other, with only you in common. You call yourself a blacksheep, but trust me you can never fathom the amount of faith you emit. I have kind of entrusted my heart to you. You know that, don't you?
I am glad to have you. I want to keep having you. I want you. This span of thirty days has been important and I owe it to praying and writing. To believing and being. To you and to me.
I love you.
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