I used to dream about
fairytales.
I could picture falling in
love. I thought it would feel like an explosion, an immediate realization.
We would exchange poetry
in the moonlight. He would know everything about me before I could tell him. He
would read my mind, take me on romantic dates, and tell me how beautiful I
am. I would be a princess. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” A stubborn one, too.
I remember someone telling
me “Fairytales don’t exist. That’s ridiculous. No one can be that way.”
“They do exist!” I said.
They don’t.
And I couldn’t be happier
to admit it. I don’t want any of the things I did when I was younger.
Turns out, falling in love
isn’t like an explosion.
It’s not exchanging
poetry, it’s telling each other how excited you are to share a life together.
It’s not reading each
other’s minds (who does that?) it’s getting to know someone, with ease.
It’s giggling at your
inside jokes.
It’s taking care of each
other.
It’s being a team.
It’s growing together,
learning together. Becoming a family.
It’s not a “fairytale”
it’s what ever your story is.
It’s the most comfortable
feeling you know. It’s peace.
It’s home.
