Post One Hundred and Eighty Five: Really.

Love is real. It's alive, lurking far beyond the purview of it's bastardisation in popular culture.

Distress not.

This blog isn't going to permutate into a perpetual almanac of dribble about my new relationship.
(It is true though, I am in love).

My fidelity seems incomparable to the Hollywood notion of romance and attachment, which is ironic(?) considering that Los Angeles, the terra firma for such piffle, is where we'll soon reconnect.

This is old school amour. I feel like our names were written in hieroglyphic passages decorating the pyramids. The possibility that I've found this other corresponding identity feels cryptic. I want to do all the things that I deemed as important, but with him. And in turn, I want for him to take my hand as we traverse through those experiences that he calls for company therein.

To yearn sounds rhetorical; but to ache.

Until then.