Staring into the Mist

It's been a full year since the death of my first boyfriend.

I've been told that a first love never dies. Discovering what that actually meant has been quite a journey for someone of my age.
The death was the spark to ignite an explosion the size of the Pacific. My heart, although contained deep within me, has fought with the wolves of men who sought to only enjoy their male fantasies, leaving me tired, cold, and even more helpless. What was a 17-year-old to do?

One year later, I find myself in north Georgia among the creatures I once called Indigo Giants. They stand among the trees, noble and dominant, knowing what they want and taking only what they need. Such a simple concept, no human could even mask. They haven't changed in a year. They haven't changed in hundreds of years.

My best friend explained to me a few weeks ago that every five years we alter our central motifs and beliefs. That the things we press on our relationships with others- such as faith and lifestyles, completely turns a 180. To some extent, it's all in good nature. It's deemed appropriate to grow out of watching cartoons, picking your boogers, and pretending you're a special agent. But what happens when we break a promise to ourselves? Something we said we would never do, someone we said we would never become? When that becomes our decision, becomes who we are, when do we stop to evaluate the mold we are breaking?

Momma would be so ashamed.

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This is a fall of new. I'm in the in-between of who once was and who is to come. Either way, I'm turning into the new, but the new could be far from what I pictured. That's all in the plan, right?

So much trust in the things you can't see. But that's the best I can do. It's all I can do.
My sanctity depends on a faith I can only feel. If you can call that sane at all.