I’ve been struck recently by how nice it is to be in a relationship with Lindsay. It’s quite nice, really. My life has taken a turn for the better since she joined it. No longer do I have to worry about girls or, really, even think about them. No longer do I have to make phone calls, go out to clubs, try to impress and all that other stuff that comes along with being in the single-dating world. Being with Lindsay is nice and secure and comfortable. Which doesn’t mean I take it for granted. Rather, I recognize how much improved my quality of life is — and I don’t want to go back to that other mode of living.

In the face of having a reaction that’s too-similar to something she wrote earlier this week, loving her isn’t something I have to think about. It just is. It’s visceral, a part of me.

So, yeah. I can’t begin to explain it all . . . and, indeed, there is a sort of fear that at the moment I learn how to convey these feelings to someone else, the feelings (or the situation that produces them) will be jinxed. I don’t honestly believe that, but superstitions are hard to get over.

As a disclaimer, I feel I should add that I don’t hold any tangible worries about our relationship (though, of course, during times of self-doubt or low self-esteem I do question such aspects of my life, but those are internal imbalances in myself; not real worries).

I can’t explain the connection I feel between Lindsay and myself. I can’t begin to explicate the way her touch or voice or smile can calm me or fill me with happiness. There seems to be some otherworldly bridge spanning our hearts and minds that provides the deepest, most fluid, easiest connection I’ve ever experienced.

Physically, though, I’m still rather sick. But my Revising and Editing instructor from Alabama loves me.

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