There's A Fine Line Between Love And

I'm Never Overwhelmed Or Under It Either; Just Nicely Whelmed. I'm Ok. Nothing Spectacular But Sometimes Special. I Look In The Mirror And See This Medium Average Person. A Little Tired, A Little Sad, But Not Falling Apart.

I Write My Novels Longhand. I Love The Feeling Of Writing; I Love To See Pen On Paper. It Feels More Creative Than Typing, And It's A More Visual Process For Me - I Can Picture The Entire Scene In My Head And Am Merely Writing What I See.

I Was The Life And She Was The Soul Of Every Party.

At Your Weakest, You End Up Showing More Strength; At Your Lowest, You Are Suddenly Lifted Higher Than You’ve Ever Been. They All Border One Another, These Opposites And Show How Quickly We Can Be Altered.

She Was Tired Of Hugging Pillows, Counting On Blankets For Warmth, And Reliving Romantic Moments Only In Her Dreams. She Was Tired Of Hoping That Every Day Would Hurry So She Could Get On To The Next. Hoping That It Would Be A Better Day, An Easier Day. But It Never Was. Worked, Paid The Bills, And Went To Bed But Never Slept. Each Morning The Weight On Her Shoulders Got Heavier And Heavier And Each Morning She Wished For Night To Fall Quickly So She Could Return To Her Bed To Hug Her Pillows And Wrap Herself In The Warmth Of Her Blankets.