Yesterday was wonderful. Yesterday filled my heart. And yesterday I faced the hard and fast reality that I am a romantic. This is not something I have ever wanted to accept about myself, since I try very hard to be a strong, independent woman. I don't like asking for help; I know my limits and I enjoy pushing them. Accomplishing hard tasks fills me with confidence and a drive to do even more. And I want to be the type of person who doesn't need a man to make her happy. I want to be completely fine on my own, capable of fulfilling my own dreams. I want to be the resilient woman who is unaffected by setbacks and trials.
But no, I just... I like feelings. I love feeling things. My soul is constantly filled with some kind of emotion, be it good or bad. I revere the soft pat of tear drops as they hit your pillow case. I live for the ache in your chest that serves as a blissful reminder that you are alive despite what has happened to you. And I love the snap of laughter that pops like a balloon breaking because it couldn't hold its excitement in. I catch the spark in people's eyes when they meet someone for the first time and are so intrigued that they can't think about anything else -- I know that feeling like no other. I'm the kind of girl who tears up when she thinks about how much she misses her family and smile-cries when she thinks of the gospel. I never wanted to be this kind of person--I wanted to be put together.
Maybe I can be both.