Stream of Consciousness

So tonight I saw a picture of a waterfall and then I started thinking about waterfalls.  And pralines.  And Nalgene bottles, and marathons, and the Opera House.  And then I started thinking about love.  And what the diffference is between loving and being IN love.  Heaps of people tell me I'm in love, and I wonder how they know?  I DO love, I definitely love.  I most definitely love.  But IN love?  I'm sure I even know what that means.  Does it mean you get all goofy?  Because that does happen, but then it goes away in a few days and I'm left wondering if I got blindsided by a truck or if I dreamt that I got blindsided by a truck?  And then I start thinking about writing and how I am incredibly intimidated about writing what I'm ACTUALLY thinking because of who might read it.  I wonder if I could possibly be a good writer, or even a great writer if I just flug caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they will.  And then I start thinking about love again, and wondering what it would look like the spend the rest of my life with the same person, and how I'll know that person when he shows up and if there is ONE person for me, or maybe there are many or maybe there are none?  And I wonder if I've already met him and he looks like a medical scientist with birds and a turtle and fish, or if he looks like cargo shorts and running T-shirts or a tall German with perfect hands and shoulders or a tenderhearted boy who married the wrong girl.  And then I think about the guys I've known who are truly the PERFECT fit of everything I've ever wanted except for that ONE thing, and then I go back to the waterfalls and pralines and Nalgene bottles.  And I wonder if I could learn to enjoy Shakespeare, and the Great Outdoors, and dressing up like the Lord of the Rings characters for parties.  And I wonder if it would be worth it, to give up my dreams of luxury accommodations for anniversaries, or probably remembering anniversaries altogether.  And if I really DON'T care about small hands or twelve years of life experience. And I realize that I DO care.  But I also care about trusting someone truly, madly, deeply, and it terrifies me that I even have the capacity for that level of trust because I know it's unrealistic and sooner or later there's a letdown that will most likely come.  And then I stop and breathe.  And just like with my writing, I'm flooded with doubts of whether I'm good enough, or interesting enough, or talented enough, or open enough, or too open.  And I revisit the journey, and (like writing) it's almost too terrifying to reread, and I'm tempted to just let it go and not look at it again, or to destroy any evidence it existed at all.  And then I realize that, despite the pain/loss/terror/unknown nature of how the story turns out, that (like writing) it's been a gift.  A gift of waterfalls, and pralines, and Nalgene, and laughter, and loving, and friendship, and memories.  And (like writing) I can live in fear of the gift, or I can simply let the gift flow where it will, trusting that God will guide me through unknown territory into the promises He has made me.  And I think of waterfalls and pralines and poetry and Shakespeare and breathe deeply, and I write.