Coincidentally, it's been exactly a month since my past post. Still I haven't figured out the paradox of time; how it's able to move both slow and fast at the exact same time.

------------

I have a love hate relationship with words. The potential, the downfall, and the soft crash they makes as they hit the ground.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm at a point in my life where anywhere I look I see the word "potential" splattered on every street bench, every fallen leaf, and every stranger that I bump paths with. And quite frankly, it's scary. The idealist in me feels that maybe this is just how I'm wired -- that I can't help but encounter something or someone and spin stories over stories of possibility, change, and desire.

But I also can't help but feel that as of late I struggle quite habitually with this word. It scares me because believing in potential leaves room for vulnerability, for hurt, and for disappointment. And soon enough the familiar face of hurt whom I haven't seen for a while comes to pay its homage.

And so I want very much to crawl back into my cocoon, forget my ideas of what could potentially happen if this happened and that maybe happens. But what kind of life is life if life is not lived on the edge? What kind of true potential can be felt if I do not venture away from the comforts of me myself and I?