why can i never say what i want to? there's another perfect chance wasted, unused.
it's funny how i spend my whole life waiting for something which is going to be amazing, and, occasionally, i get to live those amazing moments, but for the most part, it's just disappointment that ensues. and even when the things i look forward to really are as wonderful as i imagined, soon they're just a memory.
i live for things that happened long ago: lying on a trampoline in the sunshine and watching the birds; coming dowstairs to find someone i've never met with a cake for me; riding bikes in the dark and making cat noises. i live for the future: the house with the pastel pallette and lace curtains, and the little french end tables; the days of letting my imagination flow from my pen; the nights feeling safe.
but where's the point in all that?
i need to live now.