Sometimes I see the artifacts of myself drifting in my own wake - the shoes I took off after picking basil in the rain, half-propped against the wall in a way both thoughtless and neat, or the dried, dead pieces of a bouquet I grew and arranged but can't remember, drying on my friend's wall, or even my own ragged knees from the fires I knelt to ignite, the way I couldn't notice them until after. I inhabit my moments the same way as those insects that hatch for only a half life such as mayflies, or moths: lust-wild, mouthless, expecting nothing, bound only to a clutch of bright seconds, and then dust. I like that about myself, but sometimes I think it makes me come off as dismissive of others, inaccessible, or worse, overly self-interested. It's a part of my personality I'm only now coming to understand. And love.
I didn't realize until this year, recently, that I designed my garden as an identity piece.
Today was trying in a lot of ways. I had to wonder about a few uncomfortable things. I got home and stood on one leg in the kitchen while Josh made turkey burgers. I went to the gym, came back, stripped out of my clothes and showered in the empty house. I drank iced water in the shower. And all the while, I could hear this soft, thumping feeling of okayness within myself that grew and grew until I'm here. I'm sitting on the front porch with my dog in the dark, calm and listening.
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