I’ve kept silent for a long time. No longer writing about my feelings like I used to. The past two years have been exhausting - more mentally and less physically. My young body has a lot more to survive. Although, my muscles do ache from time to time and there are days I can’t get out of bed. An invisible weight seems to push down on my chest some nights more than others. It is true that I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been. I finally have a place to live where I am at peace. That’s all I ever asked for, anyway. A place where I can arrange the things I love. Little things with sentimental value. Material things don’t mean much to me. I have a room with a big window not facing anything extraordinary, but still, the sun peaking through my dainty curtains is enough to keep me whole. I have a plant, I have photos of friends, I have books, lots and lots of books. I have a big bed with cold pillows and that Buddha print I’ve put up on all sort of New York City rented walls. This small space has been enough for me. It’s kept most of me inside pretty well. I’m a lot to contain sometimes, I know. I dream of other places and other people. I know I’ve been away and I’m not quite sure when I’ll be back. I sometimes think of past lovers and the last time they inhabited this little world of mine. I let them in and perhaps it did it good that they never came back. Nothing has felt right with people. It’s hard to admit to myself that nobody has given me half the love I have given them. I’m all open hands, sweet words, and a warm nest. I don’t know when I became that person to drown myself so another person can have the whole boat but maybe I’ve always been this way. And maybe it just hurts like hell more now than before. I’m not sure if I love myself the way I think I do. If I did I wouldn’t let myself be shut by sad eyes who take and take but never even offer. I lay in the middle of my island, a dry eucalyptus plant above me, the big window ahead, the red wine and whisky next to me, a stack of unread books at my foot, and I lay in silence. I try and remember who I used to be. I forgive myself for melting into a phone crying, “I don’t ask for much.” In the confine of my living I promise myself to only give my love to someone willing to give it to me in return. Not perfectly, never perfect and not all at once. I only know broken but good. I drown myself in my own honey. I give myself to something more. There are many ways in which I am not free but in my owns hands I wish to be.
