Security.

All she knew is that she needed a voice to hear her pleas. She wasn't demanding attention, but simply wanted to know she was cared for. She held out her hand, waiting for someone to reach out and put their hand around hers. A boy, not whom she'd expected, looked at her with soft eyes, eager to listen to her meekness. She spoke about the ebbs and flows of her life, how she drifted in and out of belonging. He was sympathetic, yet not all-consuming of her body, which was exactly what she needed. He stood strong with her in the battles she faced, even as just a humble companion amongst her war that lay ahead. He was her equal, willing to go through anything she struggled with. He was her ears when she couldn't see outside of herself. He wasn't anyone significant, according to him, but to her, he was her whole world. He would remain monumental in her book for that simple act of showing an interest. He cared for her, even if it wasn't of a sexual nature. He heard her pleas when no one else would shift their focus outside of their own troubles. He was exactly what she needed, and she cherished him for it. He never understood - all he did was hold out his hand to grab hers. But to her, that was all she needed to feel secure again. All she needed was that outstretched hand.

Letters

There are letters that I wrote months ago. These are letters that contain so much more emotion than I could ever share. I still cannot bear to read the letters. So much raw feeling was compacted into such a small space between the notebook and the pen.

I lost the notebook for a few weeks... It felt nice to find it piled under the other rubble of my life - not because I was happy to see it, but rather because it signified to me that the emotions it held were buried so I was no longer taxed by them.

The letters that notebook contained were ones never meant to see the light of day.  They were never to be sent.  They were never to be read aloud.  I've contemplated burning the letters, one-by-one, without reading them a second time.  Thinking about why I needed to write those in the first place still throws me back into that emotional state (unfortunately).

Do I pretend the letters do not exist? Do I bury the notebook again for it to never resurface? Do I hand the notebook off to someone else, so that they can hold my burdens in a physical form?

I am not afraid of how I felt or what I felt in those moments of weakness.  The letters were caused my frustration, sadness, hurt, vulnerability and pain but yet those were all natural feelings I could not bottle up, though I tried.

A big step was taken a week ago when I chose to use the notebook once again...yet I was plagued by the previous pages that haunt my heart.  I knew if I turned one page the wrong way, my feelings and wounds would be exposed, burning with the air.

Which is better: to face those feelings so I can move on, or is it easier to move on by not stepping backwards emotionally to read them once more? It is as simple as thinking, "Do the means justify the end? Or does the end justify the means?" That battle is still raging within my heart.  I don't know if any side deserves to win.