Midnight

Sometimes I wonder how many people stay up at night mulling over the things they didn't do.  Words that went unsaid.  Stories that went unwritten.  Touches that were never embraced.  Hearts that were never shared.

In the mornings, we all get up and look out at a world weighed down by so much pain.  We drive in it, we demand our iced venti bolds from it, we mindlessly kiss it goodbye and rush to side-step another version of it outside our door.  We catch reflections of it in our monitors, staring back at us.

And tonight, I lie awake and I can't help but wonder how much of it has been magnified—how much of it has been perpetuated—because today I was too afraid to let people know I seem them, I am affected by them—by all of it—and care.

And I am overwhelmed.  I never want to lose another minute of sleep because I was too afraid to actively and intimately live.

We will be misunderstood, we will be imposing at times, we will not say the right thing, and we will undoubtedly hurt people.  But I'm beginning to suspect the real truth to be feared is: nothing is as painful and damaging as love withheld.