| Recluse Extraordinaire | Introvert | Poet | Writer | Child of Adoption | Bookworm | Letter Writer | People Watcher | Japanophile | Koreanophile | Inept Gamer | Netflix Junkie | Vampire Aficionado | Sentimental Fool | Frustrated Optimist | In Poor Health | Has the sense of humor of a 10-year-old boy | More than a little anal-retentive | Easily Distracted | Couch Potato | Student of the Metaphysical | Under-Educated Intellectual | Arm-Chair Philosopher | Amateur Blogger | Advocate of the Golden Rule | Plain Jane | Eternal LiveJournaler | Working Class | Insomniac | Nobody Special | Wallflower My name is Jess and I'm 32 years old. I'm quite plain and lead a rather quiet life, and usually, I like that just fine. Extremely introverted and perfectly content to spend a disturbing amount of time with no company but my own. Even so, I'm friendly and open. I've been blessed to know many amazing individuals who make my life brighter, happier. I was raised in a rather old-fashioned household and I've kept some of those philosophies and practices. I think manners are very important and I do my best to live by the Golden Rule. Kindness, a genuine attitude of service and charity are all things that I hold in high regard. I consider myself to be a hopeful agnostic and although I abhor organized religion, I find that a lot aspects of a good number of different faiths ring true in my heart. I just try to find meaning and depth in my life and focus on what good I can do in my rather limited circumstances. That being said, I can be quite impatient, snarky, sarcastic, childish, and very, very moody. Most of the time, I just want to be left alone with my music, my games, my books, and my journal. Still, as I grow older, I've come to understand the importance of being a part of humanity. I'm just like everyone else. I want to make connections; I want to be understood; I want to be appreciated; I want to love and be loved. And I want to reciprocate and find a small close circle of people whose souls sing to mine.
Almost Asleep Side by side, arms linked not so much in camaraderie but in understanding, an appreciation of time and night and blinding, soothing, melting darkness. Your head lolls and your forehead kneads my shoulder until I’m just the right amount of wax; ready to shape but so afraid to move, to disturb the face finally free of cracks, fault lines created by frequent frowns, lips of unyielding marble remedied by a softness known only by baby blankets. My arm, the left one you’re sleeping on, has lost feeling from elbow to fingertip. But you’ll wake to your burdens much sooner than you should have to, so I content myself to memorizing the abrupt arches of your eyebrows, the warm wells of your neck where your pulse beats out a steady staccato rhythm, and the heady weight of legs, still clothed and entwined.
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