Fiction.

I haven’t sat to write in ages. Be it busyness or the fact I’ve been ill for so long. Even now I sit here in bed recovering from pneumonia. My life seems a fair whirlwind of happenings, but none of such consequence to merit putting into words. Yet tonight watching an episode of TV that I’ve seen many times before has me weeping. Men like the hero in this program are written for stories. I think I’ve lost but all hope that there may yet be a man in this world with the ability to be true and honorable let alone to live up to the unfair standards that fiction has come to allow women to desire.

At this point, I would take a man far less than those standards so long as I could trust his honesty and loyalty. But my belief in such men is waning. The hopeless romantic in me desperately wants them to still exist, but I fear my lack of trust in their existence is all that is true. I know that were one to come along, I may not in fact be ready for him. There is still much to resolve in my own life before I knot myself to another’s quite yet. But still, I can’t help but wonder, when will I be ready enough for him to appear? Or I am only telling myself I’m not ready, because he truly does not exist?

I’m going to bed. My heart is weary and my eyes are fire in the welling of these tears. Tonight my soul matches the countenance of my aching body.