It’s not to tell an imaginary story or to string together some lines of amazing poetry. I write to remember. To get the crazies out without throwing them out at some innocent. I write to show my future self that I have grown from where I thought I could never. That evolution happens. And when I’m in a better place, I oftentimes can’t even go back to the things I’ve written, or worse (better?), I don’t even recognize the voice behind the words. I do this to prove that I’ve been here before and conquered it. I’ve been through worse and have persevered. I’ve had better and shouldn’t settle. I’ve felt raw emotion and haven’t become numb. And I write to remind myself that I haven’t just fallen into this ridiculous obsession with love. It’s always been here, the trepidation then intrigue, excitement then fear, resolve then rejection. The abandonment whether real or perceived. The strength to keep going. And the secret me that got through it all without anyone else knowing. I write to remind myself I’m human and beyond my super confident exterior, I’m little more than a vulnerable silly, gullible girl who keeps searching for her ideal replica of the father who left her so young. Would I even know if I found him? That’s the big joke, I guess. Probably shouldn’t have said that.