Last year at this time-- as I walked through my door, sadly home from Paris-- my computer was a black, empty screen. And I was just so so tired.

"When I began to descend through those clouds on February 20, 2001, I knew my life had changed. I felt affected-- so deeply affected-- by the romance bubbling up inside of me. I remember the blank stare of my computer just before bed, imploring me to see what surprises lay inside the ether. But as with any perfect gift, I chose to delay the pleasure just one more night-- a night filled with whirling dreams and hopeful possibilities and endless amounts of sparkling magic."

What was awaiting me: a sweet, simple note from a virtual stranger. But I think even then--even on that first day-- I knew that it wasn't so simple.

Tonight is the one year anniversary of the connection that has touched me deeper than any other. The tiny little spark jumping from his fingertips to my eyes, entwining our heads, then hearts, and eventually souls. One year ago tonight is the night I slept inside of the bittersweet memories of Paris with this feeling-- like the tingling sensation of an impending sneeze-- that something big was just around the corner. Just how big still continues to thrill me with each twist and turn.

Tonight we reflected on the roller coaster year that was us and anticipated the exciting changes that float like confetti inside of our future. There is so much of us out there, ready to be. Sometimes it's hard to imagine it all.

But believe me-- I love to try.

Happy anniversary, B.

So I'm 31. To me, 31 is not really 30 the way that 30 was essentially 29. And from where I'm standing here at 31, that actually makes sense.

Last night I went to bed at around 3am-- supposedly exhausted-- but I lay there for at least 45 minutes without even closing my eyes. I listened to the walls settle and water trickling inside of pipes. I lay flat on my back, under my fluffy, white duvet and stared out of my open windows onto the silent city street. Every once in a while, the wind would kick up and a tree branch would distract me. But for the most part, I was lost in thought.

That's pretty unusual for me. I almost never lay awake thinking. My mind runs circles 'round and 'round and 'round all day long and then as soon as I'm horizontal and warm, it usually collapses in a heap. At least two nights of the week I fall asleep with the bedside light on-- right onto the book I'm reading. The other five nights I wake myself up after falling asleep on my book long enough to tuck it under my pillow and turn off the light. Insomnia knows no home here. Not usually, that is.

The one thought that circled 'round more than any other last night is my lack of journal-ing lately-- the lack of pen to paper in my life. Laine gave me my first journal for my 18th birthday and I have a solid stack of them at the top of my bookshelf. But since whirlygirl-- and actually even more recently than that-- I've lacked that spill-all mentality between the silent pages of a secret book. Whirlygirl provides an outlet, to be sure, but there something about crafting these thoughts that leaves them more textured, more ambiguous, more artful. But less raw.

And sometimes that feels like less me.

And so amid my birthday adventures today, including a walk and another French film, I'm going to find the time to buy myself a new journal. Red, I think. Something substantial. Something trustworthy. Something lined. This year, I'll give my thoughts somewhere to go late at night instead of hovering over me in thin, wispy clouds of insomnia. And I'll leave my nights in peace.

For dreams.