I just recently came across a blog full of such beautiful word imagery — describing daily life, but in a whimsical, aching, enraptured way — that I have been rethinking the way I write this blog. As a child, I owned many, many journals, but I never wrote about my life in them. I always tried to imagine myself as someone else, as a damsel in distress with beautiful handwriting, meeting a charming wanderer who would sweep me off my feet and create a fairytale in my life. My journals are full of half-pages of these imaginings, in childish cursive, and very few entries are of real life. It has…