I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

I’m half the person I used to be, because I am not in love. No longer is there a poetic tinge to life that I once sang to when I was sad. It used to be that I could feel the warmth of my soul because I was loved, but now it feels cold. I cannot even remember what it’s like to cry because everything is so right. I miss being in love, and wish I could love someone. I long for the embrace that never has to cease, the kiss that was coupled with infinity. For a time, I had something physical, but it was hollow. Perhaps I hoped to feel it again, the intermingling of minds, but I did not. So I asked not to hear the words. Words like those would only pass by to be lost among the others. I feel as if it will never happen again. Never could I meet anyone to fill the perfections that were. At best, they would be stale comparisons and never could I feel as I once did. I want to be wrong, I pray to be forever wrong. So let her come then, for I tire of being alone. Every day without a love, I grow smaller. Emotions tell me that never again will I star into a candle as I dance with her in my mind. It becomes increasingly impossible to run in the rain and feel my own power. Slowly, I die the death of the soul-less. Nothing to have, nothing to see, no reason to be. Suddenly, I feel so very alone.

Being in love is nice, sure, but just because you’re not partnered up with someone at this very minute is no reason to get so down. Call a friend, see a movie, revel in being single. Because you know a few years into a relationship, you’ll be looking back on your single days with envy. Life’s funny like that, you’re never quite where you want to be. But that’s kind of its brilliance too. It’s that never quite being there that should keep you striving for something. Don’t worry, you’ll find it and you’ll get there.