The Heart Stills (n.)

“All of this randomness is leading toward a perfect moment […] I can’t help but wonder about my fate; about my destiny.”

Be still my beating heart. I write these words as if they mean something. They don’t. I probably just like chocolate. But they used to; I used to calm it and tell myself and my heart to slow down. I was perpetually consumed by love or its wretched hangover. That is no longer the case.

I realized recently that I don’t have a love interest. I don’t have an admirer – except those ones I find on a weekly basis, who text me for a while before they realize I’m probably never going to go out with them. With me, persistence is key – but so are first impressions. If I wasn’t ever interested, I’ll probably never be – I know within seconds if it could be something; if it will be something. (My two longest relationships begun in a moment when I looked at each guy and thought “Mine”.) But I give out my number because it’s easier to say no to a screen than it is to a person’s face who is hopefully requesting your digits, an in essence, your time – perhaps even, your love. But I just like the fleeting attention.

But my hope, my interest is in limbo. My love is only mine. (And chocolate’s.) I don’t even have a crush. Not even little one. I’ve even lost my (inexplicable) celebu-crush on Shia LeBouf.

Now I wonder what happens to the girl – the one who was so in love with love that she took purposeful and executive actions to fall out of love with love – when there is no love to be had. I had myself on so many hiatuses over the past couple of years that I didn’t even notice to care that there wasn't anyone to be interested in when I wasn't with someone. I was healing a broken heart; or running away from love’s love; or tending to my silliness; or focusing on myself. Now, I’m just here…waiting. On something…or perhaps I’m waiting on absolutely nothing. This is a strange place to be indeed.

The beating heart stills. It's more of a noun than a verb. And with the stills, it waits on the corner for the bus. With a hope that it picks me up before a rain begins. And with a nice, open seat, perhaps next to a lovely stranger...in a most unexpected of places.

I’m not wounded, broken or recovering. It’s a new place for me. Maybe even a little – dare I say – boring. You know, for someone who thrived for so long on something they had decided to run away from…and now are slowly sauntering back to. It’s like walking a marathon.

And I’m more of a 10 minute mile; an eager, but calm pace...somewhere in the middle of 30,000 other runners. Perhaps I should learn to just relax.