i feel like my soul is solid, not some wispy vapor that, were it not contained within my body, would go wherever the wind goes. my soul is rock; my soul is earth.

I had the worst two dreams my conscience has ever allowed to slip past the threads of a dream-catcher this morning.

They both had him in it. In situations where we were back at school, back in some class that seemed eerily similar to Suzuki. I just remember his face in the second dream. I'd turned around during a partner exercise and placed my left forearm across his collarbone and pushed, my fingers clenching around his left shoulder.

And his face...I've never seen one so forlorn.

And here I am, not grievously haunted by the image, but my mind keeps cycling back to it.

But I don't feel guilty.

As soulless as it sounds, that's what happens when you put your faith in romance. When you put your faith in me to follow through, back to your heart.

Everyone--everyone--has a slight touch of Cyrano in their dispositions. But my own romantic nature is not borne upon the perfumed winds of words. I keep my fantasies to myself, because they are mine--they are not to be shared, not to just anyone--kept in the safe confines of my own mind.

I am not heartless; I am not soulless. I am not just a leaf on the wind, though. I am not easily swayed.

A younger version of myself, the girl who started writing here, would ask if she'd finally grown up. The present young woman who sits here doesn't care.