When we write, we write for a person, one soul. Maybe for them to notice us, to remember us in a fleeting moment, only once again, then we would be alright.

I feel I have deterred from writing so long because I no longer had such hopes in it. I didn’t share or publish my work. I only feared the worst – other’s criticism. I don’t want to think that way no longer.

I remember being a teenager, a young teenager of at least fourteen years old, running up the hill that was my driveway, and getting ahold of magazine – well known Vogue. I don’t know if Anna Wintour would care I was a voracious reader of the articles, reading about Botox, how to stay skinny, and people’s story of achieving their ambitions. Her world view was there for us to read if only a peep into a grander place.

I dreamt about evening dresses and dancing the waltz with beautiful boys. Reading about people wearing expense Halloween costumes, that drone thousands across the department counters of New York Society. Her world looked beautiful, and with reading from Wall Street Journal and the like, there were people out there, in the world achieving so great and wonderful things.

I just threw out all the Vogues in the apartment, just an hour or so ago, knowing that is no longer quite my dream anymore. Yes, I love admiring beautiful things, but how can be they be everything when you love someone unconditional, without tethers, and have a good belly laugh? How the money gives all the things and more the mind of mine could never concoct, but to remember how to love someone truly.

I think, in my “younger years”, I wrote for people, boys especially that I was enamored with. How I wanted them to know my innermost thoughts and the stories I loved to tell them into the night. How perfectly written, words placed just so, sharing them my hearts fleeting dreams, and how fun of times it could have been. It would have been nice if one of them could edit them back then.

I don’t know if love is there for me, a romantic love of course. My joy is confounded in writing once again. But, if I never love again, I’ll be content. For having loved once at all, seems enough even for Shakespeare.