"..there is so much more to life than simply surviving it."

As far as I’m concerned, everything on this silly little blog should be deleted up until this point. But since I don’t feel like deleting every single thing, (I also know there are some of you that like to creep and read my old stuff) it will stay up here. But please, ignore it, laugh at it, whatever, just don’t ask me questions about it or expect me to talk about any of it.

I’ve been in San Marcos for almost a month now. I can’t complain about the way things are, especially since I flipped my world upside down to come down here. It was considered by many to be a selfish choice, and honestly, I have to agree. Texas State doesn’t have a good engineering program, it’s 4 hours away from home, and the decision to come down here put too much stress on my relationship for it to last.
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-You aren’t perfect. In fact, you’re far from it. But when I’m with you, you make me feel a little better about how my life is going right now. I know that in the grand scheme of things you probably don’t care about me at all, but that’s not going to stop me from blessing myself with your presence.

-I’m still mad at you, and I’m not sure if that will ever go away. I want it to, because I don’t necessarily enjoy being mad at you, but that’s not really something I have control over. In fact, it’s your fault 100%. But hey, I love you and I always will, even if you changed everything for everyone without anyone’s consent.

-I know you hate me, and trust me, I hate me too. I’ve ruined everything that we spent years building for a selfish desire. I really thought we would make it through, but I guess we (or maybe it’s just me) weren’t as strong as I thought we were. I know you don’t believe in the whole “if we’re meant to be together we’ll eventually find our way back to each other”, and I can honestly say that I don’t either. You’ve successfully made me believe that we will never be the same, and it’s all my fault. I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened over the time we’ve spent together, and if you ever wonder if you could’ve done something differently, you couldn’t have. You are perfect in every way, and I guess one day I’ll realize that I should have tried harder.
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So many changes have occurred in such a short amount of time that none have really had time to set in yet. I don’t hurt yet. Sure, I’m mad at myself on a daily basis for ruining everything, but as far as my heart, it doesn’t hurt yet. I know that at any given moment, it could hit me like a freight train. I’m scared to make the 4 hour drive home because I’m afraid that’s when it will happen. Besides the songs I listen to, the things that you’ve bought for me, and the occasional memory, nothing in San Marcos reminds me of what we had. There are endless amounts of things to distract me, but I know that home won’t be that way. Every building, every road, every single stupid little thing will bring back something that I haven’t had to think about yet. Whatever. I guess in your mind, I deserve to feel bad. Wouldn’t anyone else feel bad?
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“What would I say? Would I tell them what happiness will mean? What sorrow can taste like? Will I tell them that nothing on this earth will ever feel as much like home, as much like grace and as much like pure and absolute contentment than being woken in the stillness of a dark night, rolling over, adjusting your pillow and without warning, feeling the side of your foot brush the warmth of a leg that connects to a hip, a hip that gives way to a stomach and supports a chest, a chest that protects a heart that you know, without doubt, belongs to you. That happiness is handing over your heart, knowing that it is in capable hands; hands that want to hold it and will not tremble at the sight of it leaking out and spilling onto their clothes. That love, true love, is not seeing flaws in them, but explanations and reasons and meanings to the things they hide and spend so much time concerned over. It’s loving the pieces they waste their moments hiding.

What would be written of sorrow? Why don’t they explain the emptiness that comes when one hand fills the gap and it belongs to one person that you waited a lifetime to find and that finding doesn’t mean getting them, and loving them doesn’t mean holding them, and holding them doesn’t mean keeping them, and waiting doesn’t mean you will wait numb to the loneliness, and oxygen stealing burning of tired lungs? Why don’t they tell us of the wounds we will incur and the depth they will sing into us, and why don’t they tell us that we will forever cherish the scars created?”
-Tyler Knott Gregson