Dear me,
I am an accomplice.
A serial yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
To everything but myself.
For safety.
For comfort.
Me and my pain became partners in the illusion
that everything wrong was somehow right.
A comfort zone.
A product purchased with a life not lived.
I wake up and the headache is beyond me.
Aspirin.
Water.
Food.
I’m avoiding the mirror.
I can’t bear myself today.
Beyond the headache, the voice is back.
Not loud.
Persistent.
So today, we will talk.
Today, maybe I will listen.
The thing about becoming is that you’re always divided —
between past and future —
but almost never the present.
Who am I today?
Now?
Here?It seems impossible to jump into who I want to be
without foundations beneath me.
My closet.
I always start there.
I need to put everything in place
to see what doesn’t fit anymore.
I can’t see what’s out of place
before I place it where I think it should be.
I let instinct do the rest.
Coffee.
I need a familiar smell.
Shower.
Netflix.
No.
Fuck Netflix.
I can’t keep avoiding this.
I’m stressed not because it’s so scary,
but because I’ve been avoiding it.
What do I want to take with me —
from me?
This is the beginning.
Today, I will be here.
Now.
Observe.
Preserve.
Copy.
Delete.