Curled up in bed, curled up next to the fire, curled snuggly into your arms. Curling has always meant warmth to me. To be held near, to be safe, to be loved. But now it has a new meaning. Now it means excitement.
From my toes curling before I lift a weight, to my stomach curling in when a pretty girl meets my eyes. The curling means want, means desire. It means desperation, for love, success, for something more.
Gone is the association of comfort. Now it's a faded memory, the unknown takes its place. My fears for it, my hopes for it, all bundled in one curling mass. I curl in as I write this, my back hunched over this frail notebook. I’m curled inside too, like a misshaped ketchup packet, forcing some drop of something real out, trying to pen it to page, trying to give some substance of myself shape. These curling letters become my attempt, a small piece of myself to be left behind.
That’s all this is. That’s all anything is. Just myself. Just the parts of myself I want to leave behind. Something for me to be remembered. Just a single, final, curling dream.
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