I stopped believing in romance somewhere between mile marker 121 and 123. It sounds so flippant, I love it. I wish I could be that cool, nonchalant girl who is simply all right with the fact that she doesn't believe in love anymore. But I'm not. I used to be the most hopeless of romantics. The girl who searched through page after page of dumb love quotes or who spent hours creating mushy play lists for her ipod. Oh, and the daydreams. I would rather not even get into those. I had the most lavish, sickeningly sweet dreams possible. Please believe white picket fences were just the tip of the iceberg. So for me to have something that used to be such a fundamental part of my being, simply decide it doesn't want to live in me anymore and just fly away.... was upsetting, to say the least.

I blame it on a little kid in a minivan, to tell you the truth. Speeding down the interstate, I came eye to eye with this tiny boy screaming about something in the backseat of a van. His mother was trying to appease him and looked so tired. Not the kind of tired that you get after pulling an all-nighter or tripping into work with a raging hangover. But the kind of tired that takes years to cultivate. The tired that seeps into your bones, your soul, and makes itself a permanent resident. Is this what I am going to be reduced to? Is this what I have been dreaming my whole life for? To look like a battered soldier with no medals to show for, except a rattling van, whiny children, and a husband who looks at his twenty-something-year-old secretary a little too long? I cannot do that. I will not do that. I am tired of trying to squeeze myself into this impractical mold society has carved out for me. Maybe I don’t want a man to define my other half. I am a whole, thank you, and plan to stay that way. I can’t image telling half of my being to just die, only to replace it with a male who leaves his dirty socks on the floor, gets off without worrying himself about my orgasm, and doesn’t know my favorite flower.

I loathe the fact that because of societal norms I feel guilty for not wanting the life I’m supposed to want.
I want to live in as many countries as possible, hopping borders like a frantic fugitive.
I actually do want a child, two in fact. One of my own, to see if my stubbornness and unruly curls are hereditary, and one that I have adopted.
A husband really isn’t necessary, but I would like a man that shares my dreams, tells me when I’m being a bitch, and lifts me up when my legs forget how to stand.
I want to see things I didn’t know existed, feel things I didn’t think were possible, and grow so rich in knowledge, even the gurus would envy me if they had the ability to envy.
I want so much, more than I think I will ever fully be able to obtain.

So I quickly exited the Interstate. My dreams seemed to be dying with each passing car and jadedness was starting to set up camp in my bones. I wasn’t quite ready for my hopes to start peeling away like the paint on my old car.

The world was, is, still too beautiful to me.