Home Is Where the Heart Is

Sometimes I have these crazy urges to forget about college and whatever life that may lead me to and move to California.
That’s where the boy I love lives. He’s in the Navy, and that means he is thousands of miles away from me at every given point in time.

 

He visited earlier this month. It was the first time we’d seen each other in 5 months. It was two of the best weeks I’ve had in, well, a really long time. And saying goodbye was harder than it was the first time he left. I drove home that morning, as he left for the airport, resisting every urge to turn around and chase him down and hug him and never everΒ let him go.

 

I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to be with him. To hold him, and talk to him, and not have to go “what?” every 3 seconds because his phone service is awful. To be able to hear him when he guitars for me. To actually see his face. To hold hands and cuddle and whatever. It sounds so silly, so simple, but that’s really all I want.

 

But he and I both know it’s crazy, and it won’t happen. I’ve been looking forward to college since 3rd grade. I have a HUGEΒ scholarship. I can’t give that all up.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to dream, I guess. Maybe it makes it easier.

 

It’s just…sometimes, he feels more like home than where I actually live. The two weeks he was home, I spent as much time as I could with him, because being with him feels so comfortable and safe.

 

Maybe I’m crazy.
They do say love is a shade of crazy.

I’m probably crazy.

 

Peace, Love, & Dreams,

 

Jax

P.S.
This is a picture of us from when he was home. πŸ™‚

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s