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“Love either starves to death and becomes a shadow, or else it dies young and remains a dream.” ~ James Jones
I’m a writer at heart.
I heal through writing.
And today, my words are flowing for you.
For you all. My ex-lovers, ex-husband, and friends.
The truth is—I still miss you.
To the lovers of Phnom Penh, of New-York, of Faraway islands, and of France.
To all the men that have tried to love me when I wasn’t ready for it. To the mistakes I made and the words I failed to say.
To all the misunderstandings.
To the warmth of you that I couldn’t receive, to the support, I misinterpreted, to the space that you needed that I didn’t give.
To the lovers who were too far away in space, so that life didn’t allow us to dive in. To the romantic relationships that stopped and failed before even flowering.
To the travels, I cherished—because I found you.
To the folly and the laughter that we shared. To the sparkling eyes and the witty souls. To your dreams, to your rebellion—to the blossoming of your soul’s songs.
To your warrior’s hearts. To your boldness and to your sensitivity. To the beauty of your dreams.
To the gifts that you have been for me.
To the hero in you all. To all the masculine souls who have held me—listened, understood, loved, inspired, gave strength, and set free.
To the steps, you allowed me to take. To the golden paths you forged within me.
To the love we weren’t ready for.
To my inconsistencies and paradoxes: wanting you to stay while not being ready to do the work that was needed for it.
To the days I blamed you without looking within.
To all the smiles of true recognition, the sparkles, the sumptuous evenings, and the motorbike rides.
To these key soul connections. I’m so grateful we crossed paths.
You were years, months, or even weeks only.
But you all were key. Soul growth and heart opening do not care about time; they care about love, about the right words, and about the accuracy of what was at that time exactly needed.
To my greatest, most cherished memories.
To all the men of my life, thank you.
You were years or a breeze, but—you are all a part of me.
“Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.” ~ Stephen E. Braude