Sometimes I write

And delete every word once I’m done. I did that a moment ago. I was wondering if there’s someone out there for me whom I will grow old with.

That’s not a question I can answer. I don’t know the future and I don’t know if I’ll ever fall in love again. It doesn’t matter right now either. I’m okay with how things are, and I love my life and sometimes that’s all we can hope for.

Writing, sorting through my thoughts and feelings on the matter was enough. I didn’t feel the need to share it with the world. Or the five people who may end up reading this. Sometimes I write because it can be cathartic. Not everything needs to be read.

Granted, it felt a little self-indulgent. My thoughts were genuine. Nothing that worries me much or that I fret over. Just musings on heartbreak and the capacity for love after.

But they could have been read as a quest for affirmation. Which is not what I’m looking for. I don’t need or want anyone to pat me on the shoulder and tell me that ‘yes, of course, there’s someone out there for you’ and ‘you will find love again’.

Nobody knows that and whilst it might be the ‘nice’ thing to say and stem from the kindness of your heart, it also doesn’t ring true. Because the fact of the matter is that nobody knows the future or whether I will ever fall in love again.

So, I deleted the whole 600 words because it didn’t matter enough to be posted. What mattered is that I was writing.

Sometimes I sit down to write, but without really knowing what it is I want to write. I just want to put one word after the next and come up with something. Perhaps just a stream-of-consciousness thing. It’s sort of therapeutic but nothing I need to bore an outside with.

The act of writing is in itself enough, regardless of what comes after.

I’m better now.