I used to think I was a mystery.
The girl who can quote Jane Austen movies just as fluently as Star Wars. The girl who pretended to be a fashion designer when she was younger, creating ballgowns of paper, and grew up to be someone who climbs rocks and gets dirty and hikes off trail through the mountains. The girl who can be overwhelmingly sarcastic when not checked and who can write honest and hard-hitting things and who can argue politics as easy as breathing, but who still adores weddings, loves Disney princess movies, and enjoys wearing lipstick.
Who am I? I used to ask myself, fascinated by all of these different and seemingly opposing characteristics that roll together like gears inside me.
The simple answer is that I'm a girl who loves, even when it kills me.
The real mystery is how do I stop loving.
The real mystery is how do I stop loving.
