About as cliché as a journal with two entries.

Sorry, I’ve been a neglectful scribe. Lately so much has been going on, but I still feel like I’m at the same place I was two months ago when I returned from Panama. Let’s see, I’ve been hiking and drinking, kissing and fucking and not feeling a damn thing. And when I say not feeling, know that it’s good. I’ve finally learned how to be alone and be happy at the same time. I grew so accustomed to yearning for love, I think I tried to find love with every guy I’d kissed in the past two years. I sought it out, begged it to meet me, but it would elude me every time. Oh, what hell that brought. I’m finally just content with myself and damn, it feels nice.

I look at my friends from high school and see them getting pregnant, getting hitched and getting boring and I can’t help but feel grateful that I wasn’t able to fall comfortably into love in these past two years. Sure, it may have felt like my heart was thrown into a rock tumbler a few times, but hey, now it’s all shiny and I’m better for it. 

I want to eat the world and I want to do it alone for now. Maybe one day that will change, but right now, for the first time in a long time, I do not lie awake at night and wish there was another person filling up the empty half of my bed. I just stare above and match the shapes in the crackled paint on my ceiling to the countries they resemble and then I visit them in my dreams.