dreams

When I was about twelve years old, I became obsessed with a certain trilogy called The Lord of the Rings.  

I'm convinced that my taste for bearded men originated from the movies.  I was especially fond of this guy:

That being said, I want to point out that I married this guy:

The moral of this story is, never give up on your dreams.  That bearded man is out there somewhere.

Andrew James.

You took this bitter seed which had opened up and sprouted in my heart, and cast it aside, not once losing contact with my eyes.  How could this be such a simple task?  Mortifying me of something I saw as a fundamental part of me.  Stubborn roots wrapped tightly around my insides.

It's what I dreamed of being able to achieve, each day I woke up, struggling to breathe.  And here you are.  There you came.  This solid reality.

Like a six month supply of prayers for rain, crashing in all at once.

And you're standing in the middle of the path I was eagerly treading.  You distraction, you aberration, I was making good time.

Is it a mistake to find comfort here?  To hide in this new-found shelter of mine?  With what seems to be infinite amounts of sincere, gentle, kind.