We all love - love.

The story goes on... 

With each passing day feelings, questions without answers, promises with no pinkies crossed, and the never ending pen to the paper in the journal, leave me wondering. Does this story have a happy ending? Or will the pen run out of ink before the story ends? 

 

I know, I know, it is too much to ask. To wonder, or to put myself through. But love drives you places you have never been, down the familiar roads of your neighborhood, through the promise of new beginnings in the city scape, then around the thousands of other desperate and hopeful believers, who believe the same thing as you. That it will work, and love will meet them as you want it to meet you. But the girls who apply concealer around their days and months worth of lost sleep, to the men who parade around with gallons of cologne to appeal to the opposite sex, are individuals whose hearts have broken more than their bones. Who have lost days, months, and years of sleep all for the promise of love, or the loss of it. And I know all so well, how it feels. Because it is all too familiar, too real. But it is beautifully painful, chaotically tranquil, and I would never change it. We all love, love.