In A Nutshell

What would I do? If I was an author in my own right, living on her own wherever she ends up in the world, I would have a library, full of all the books of the world that tickles my brain and keeps my attention. I would have a garden full of all kinds of plants because I'm not averse to any. I would have white walls and grey lounges, glass tables and mahogany desks and shelves. I'll have colors and I'll have none. My resting place will be in shades of black and grey because colors are mentally too loud  It'll be the biggest room in the house because loud thoughts need to scream. I'll have the perfect patio that opens up into a space not disturbed by beautiful towering trees- only because, I would wish to see the stars at night.  I'll spend most of my nights on that patio,  drinking all the alcohol my body could contain  because it is then that my thoughts recognize themselves.  I act, think, and do transparently, to everyone else and not just myself. I say everyo

The universe used to be so small.  It used to consist of only three stars in the night sky,  the trees in my backyard and my thoughts-  my thoughts that never could recognize themselves.  Somewhere between the peace of being absolutely still  and the speed of which I'm always moving,  my thoughts present themselves over and over again-  and I realize, that amidst my intermittent nature, there is much for me to be gentle for. From the moment I get up out of bed, with my eyes partially half closed, face swollen, morning breath, and walking reflexively to the restroom  posed like a zombie- to the minute I leave the restroom, face washed, teeth brushed, and straight to the coffee pot, where my real morning routine starts, with a complex personal self-served coffee order, that I computatively go through without error, as I'm thinking my thoughts and thinking no thoughts-  thoughts that don't recognize themselves. The universe now consist of my intermittent nature, that is order

The dichotomy of time is my most loved concept. Time is such a mysterious reality, a realistic mystery, it does not lie but it eludes you- every single moment. It's reality but it's never truth. Somehow, that's more romantic to me than the red roses I received on valentines day in 2019. Somehow, this concept of time that keeps taking away my life simultaneously keeps me insatiable; for I keep ending back to it, no matter where I choose to start. Have you ever gone back and read things you wrote more than 3 years ago, exchanges you had, poems you kept, and little subliminal messages archived into your stories? I do. I went back and read messages I had in an old account with another account that has already ceased to exist. Our messages remain- little words of pain, truth, confessions, and lies. I realize I cannot see myself typing the same words ever again. I am not that person anymore. The memory is so far and detached from who I've become that it does not feel like I&#