Candles (just me writing the same things over and over again)

“Caitlin?"

"Yes?"

"You know I love you, right?"

"I know. I know."

"I hope so."

This is a conversation I had with a Person. This Person not only claimed to loved me - I am certain that he did. It could not be scientifically proven (our hearts could never fit a formula). For years, the abundance of our love burned so fiercely you couldn’t miss us as we billowed through air currents. And everyone around me echoed the same sentiments. “Person loves you.”

It’s mind boggling to track how things go from “here” to “there” to “nowhere.”

Why, oh why, do things expire? Why do certain loves have a shelf life? Why wasn’t I a girl (or woman) who could have had a sweet simple forever?

There is something about me. Sometimes I wonder if I am too different for other people to completely sink into. And on top of that, I don’t always welcome visitors. Especially in “that way.” Almost never. Almost.

Back to my point - most people have a beginning, middle, and end. Not to their stories - lives - but to their personalities. They know what to expect from themselves in most situations because they grasp the essence of who they are, whether they think of this concept in these terms or not.

I am occasionally concerned that I may not have an end. This is something that truly scares me. As my world expands, I expand - and that sounds normal enough, but what I mean is that I have still been known to genuinely surprise myself. It comes down to my inconsistency.

I honestly don’t understand my lack of feeling at times - or my abundance of it. That’s all I will say.

I am not convinced I can name all of my bones - my structure - at the age of 35. This makes reassembly a challenge. Yet somehow disassembly is also a challenge. I have an unconventional endurance.

The point here: I still can’t figure out life. I can’t figure myself out. Yet I’m considering that this is the point.

Maybe I am different because I have realized what other people haven’t - that none of this shit will ever actually make sense. And there aren’t complete answers, darlings.

There is one thing I trust - and that is love.

My love is a white candle I hold in both hands. It illuminates. It burns itself out. It must be handled so carefully. It can be snuffed out. Without supervision it may cease to be contained. I am the flame.

Either I haven’t