I like the smell of smoke that lingers in my hair after dark. I like walking alone at night, past rows of flickering streetlamps, the illuminated windows and sounds of people. I like loud music, heavy bass and the sweaty press of bodies in a club so crowded you can’t hear yourself think. Breathe in deep the liminality.
I like sunshine, sitting backlit so warm your hair burns with heat. I like soft and warm things. Running my fingers through the fur of a cat asleep atop piles of unfinished work at 3am. The solid weight of an arm slung across a back. I like the feeling of incandescent joy that bubbles up from a place of deep security.
I dream of open floor plans and French windows. Staircase rails corrugating slow, shiny floorboards and cabinets burnishing umber. Rooms filled with nothing but light. Secretly, ashamedly, I dream of finding love – a love so transformative that I too become someone worthy. I dream of finding surety, planting my feet into the earth so deep that nothing can falter me. I dream of freedom and the sky.
I dream of finding words so perfectly balanced they drop as keys of a piano. Watch how they bloom as the first crocus of the spring.
Tiptoed upon the surface of a lake, I slip in and make no sound.
or; finding myself.
writing for the first time in a long-time feels a little like learning to breathe again. i have been so busy lately that all it seems i do is work. i can't tell where 'medicine' stops and i begin. this is just a reminder for myself.