Early mornings in the little bookstore, all is quiet but for the loud headphones of the man sitting next to me. There's a particular stillness in New York mornings, a moment before the rush begins, before the heat rises. My body aches from the long run, from the weight of the world on my shoulders but I do not mind it.
It's nice to be reminded one has a body at all.
The summer I turned 20, I moved to the West Coast in the warmest, longest summer in memory. Unemployed, we spent September mornings on the tram to the ocean, I'll never forget the pleasure of indulgence. So many summers since have been cold, and rainy, like grasping at straws that would not be caught.
Like trying to fight for a love that did, in fact, not love you back.
I try to give myself gifts of time, of space for writing and living in my own creative whorl, but I am reluctant to receive, anxious about the time lost, it's cruel. I touch the spines of the books around me, it always soothed me as a child.
And we are all forever children, somewhere inside.
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