Mr. Darcy

I wanted a love story. The sort of aching, vulnerable, reluctant-but-inevitable-submission-into love found in the pages of Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice. I thought love would be poetry and English fields, even though despite my wishes Mr. Darcy is nowhere to be found.
The occasion of the day inspires me to write down my feelings today. And I have so many of them. I lay awake at night and wonder: how many stories go untold? Why are we islands? I have so many stories to tell. Women —we have a story to tell. We need to tell our stories.
So I’m a romantic. I will wear a mask of cynicism from time to time, but I can’t hide for long. And I’ve become even more of one recently. It’s like someone turned the light on in my life. Life’s all milk and honey lately.
I might have rolled my eyes at that notion a few years ago, because I felt entirely fulfilled. Now I think I had barely started charting the land and sea of my life. Suddenly my world became a universe—I looked up and saw the stars for the first time. Dazzling, terrifying, and inspiring all at once.

Love,

Fearless