“What kind of day is today going to be?”

I spoke to myself directly and succinctly, one that didn’t really warrant a response because, in a sense, I wasn’t asking, but demanding. I was desperately trying to call it out, whatever it was (it was you), and reel it in before it could suffocate the day. But just like a woman who fails to exercise her intuition frequently, I would be ambushed. You seeped through my defenses and consumed my imagination. Which knowing me, is much worse than my thoughts. Thoughts reflect reality, and I live under the surface. Today you lived there with me. I wouldn’t quite say I surrendered, but I didn’t defend myself against remembering. Don’t expect me to tell you what I had seen or what I feel about it. That level of self-deprecation no longer suits me. But most innocently, it was sweet. And that’s what drags me down, the good of it all. Those pieces that stand out and irritate my gaze in the most calming way. In the way, irritation arises briefly after you’ve broken the single most beautiful item you’d been saving since you were little. Because what gives it the weight to fall, what pushes it over the edge, is time. The longer something lasts, the more time we spend finding reasons to allow its absence to break our hearts (whether it’s worth the heartache or not) and who knows such answers to the matters of a wounded soul. But that is why I mustered up the authority to call out my truth because it never lies.

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