Maybe we aren't suppose to be happy.
Maybe gratitude has nothing to do with joy. Maybe being greatful means recognizing what you have for what is is and admire the struggle it takes to be simply human. Maybe we are thanksful for the familiar things we know and maybe we are thankful for the things we may never know.
At the end of the day, the fact that we still have the courage to still be standing is reason enough to celebrate. Even now, I believe for the most part, love is about choices. It's about putting down the poison and the dagger and making your own happy ending, most of the time. And that sometimes, despite all your best choices and all your best intentions, fate wins anyway.
Intimacy is a four syllable word for 'here are my heart and soul, please grind them into hamburger and enjoy.'
It's both desired and feared. Difficult to live with and impossible to live without. Intimacy also comes attached to life's three R's: relatives, romance, and roommates. There are some things you can't escape, and other things you just don't want to know.
I wish there were a rulebook for intimacy. Some kind of a guide that can tell you when you've crossed the line. It would be nice if you could see it coming. But I don't know how you would fit it on the map. You take it where you can get it --and keep it for as long as you can. And as for rules, maybe there are none. Maybe the rules of intimacies are something you have to define for yourself.
Maybe we like the pain. Maybe we're wired that way. Because without it --I don't know…maybe we just wouldn't feel real. What's that saying?
Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.